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THE KING IN YELLOW 


BY 

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 

AUTHOR OF “ IN THE QUARTER.'* 



F. TENNYSON NEELY, 

114 Fifth Avknoe, New Yoke. 




ifh 

o s< 

■ 'C 


Copyright 1895 

3 ?. Tennyson Neely. 


3ic> n&k 








I 




































































THE KING IN YELLOW 
DEDICATED 
TO 


MY BKvTHER. 






THE REPAIRER OP REPUTATIONS 







“ Along the shore the cloud waves break. 

The twin suns sink behind the lake. 

The shadows lengthen 

In Carcosa. 

Strange is the night where black stars rise. 
And strange moons circle through the skies, 
But stranger still is 

Lost Carcosa, 

Songs that the Hyades shall sing, 

Where flap the tatters of the King, 

Must die unheard in 

Dim Carcosa. 

Song of my soul, my voice is dead. 

Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed 
Shall dry and die in 

Lost Carcosa. 9 * 


Cassilda’s Song in tl The King in Yellow. 
Act 1. Scene 2. 
















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The Repairer of Reputations 9 

The Mask 57 

The Court of the Dragon 85 

The Yellow Sign 99 

The Demoiselle d’Ys 131 

The Prophets’ Paradise 155 

The Street of the Four Winds 167 

The Street of the First Shell 179 

The Street of Our Lady of the Fields. 229 
Rue Barrie. 285 




THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. 

I. 


u Ne raillons pas lesfous; leur folie dure plus longtemps 
que la notre . . . Voili toute la difference.” 

OWARD the end of the year 1920 the 
Government of the United Sthtes 
had practically completed the pro- 
gramme, adopted during the last 
months of President Winthrop’s adminis- 
tration. The country was apparently tranquil. 
Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labor 
questions were settled. The war with Ger- 
many, incident on that country’s seizure of the 
Samoan Islands, had left no visible scars 
upon the republic, and the temporary occu- 
pation of Norfolk by the invading army had 
been forgotten in the joy over repeated naval 
victories and the subsequent ridiculous plight 
of General Von Gartenlaube’s forces in the 
State of New Jersey. The Cuban and Ha- 
waiian investments had paid one hundred per 
cent, and the territory of Samoa was well 
worth its cost as a coaling station. The 
country was in a superb state of defence. 
Every coast city had been well supplied with 
land fortifications ; the army under the pa- 
rental eye of the General Staff, organized ac- 
cording to the Prussian system, had been in- 
creased to 300,000 men with a territorial re- 
serve of a million ; and six magnificent squad- 



IO 


THE KING IN YELLOW , . 


rons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the 
six stations of the navigable seas, leaving a 
steam reserve amply fitted to control home 
waters. The gentlemen from the West had 
at last been constrained to acknowledge that 
a college for the training of diplomats was as 
necessary as law schools are for the training 
of barristers ; consequently we were no 
longer represented abroad by incompetent pa- 
triots. The nation was prosperous. Chicago, 
for a moment paralyzed after a second great 
fire; had risen from its ruins, white and im- 
perial, and more beautiful than the white city 
which had been built for its plaything in 1893. 
Everywhere good architecture was replacing 
bad, and even in New York, a sudden craving 
for decency had swept away a great portion 
of the existing horrors. Streets had been 
widened, properly paved and lighted, trees 
had been planted, squares laid out, elevated 
structures demolished and underground roads 
built to replace them. The new government 
buildings and barracks were fine bits of archi- 
tecture, and the long system of stone quays 
which completely surrounded the island had 
been turned into parks which proved a god- 
send to the population. The subsidizing of 
the state theatre and state opera brought its 
own reward. The United States National 
Academy of Design was much like European 
institutions of the same kind. Nobody en- 
vied the Secretary of Fine Arts, either his 
cabinet position or his portfolio. The Secre- 
tary of Forrestry and Game Preservation had 
a much easier time, thanks to the new system 
of National Mounted Police. We had profited 
well by the latest treaties with France and 
England ; the exclusion of foreign-born Jews 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. j j 

as a measure of national self-preservation, 
the settlement of the new independent negro 
state of Suanee, the checking of immigration, 
the new laws concerning naturalization, and 
the gradual centralization of power in the ex- 
ecutive all contributed to national calm and 
prosperity. When the Government solved the 
Indian problem and squadrons of Indian 
cavalry scouts in native costume were substi- 
tuted for the pitiable organizations tacked on 
to the tail of skeletonized regiments by a former 
Secretary of War, the nation drew a long 
sigh of relief. When, after the colossal Con- 
gress of Religions, bigotry and intolerance 
were laid in their graves and kindness and 
charity began to draw warring sects together, 
many thought the millennium had arrived, at 
least in the new world, which after all is a 
world by itself. 

But self-preservation is the first law, and the 
United States had to look on in helpless sorrow 
as Germany, Italy, Spain and Belgium writhed 
in the throes of Anarchy, while Russia, watch- 
ing from the Caucasus, stooped and bound 
them one by one. 

In the city of New York the summer of 1 899 
was signalized by the dismantling of the 
Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1900 
will live in the memories of New York people 
for many a cycle ; the Dodge Statue was re- 
moved in that year. In the following winter 
began that agitation for the repeal of the laws 
prohibiting suicide which bore its final fruit in 
the month of April, 1 920, when the first Govern- 
ment Lethal Chamber was opened on Washing- 
ton Square. 

I had walked down that day from Dr. 
Archer’s house on Madison Avenue, where I 


12 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


had been as a mere formality. Ever since 
that fall from my horse, four years before, I 
had been troubled at times with pains in the 
back of my head and neck, but now for months 
they had been absent, and the doctor sent me 
away that day saying there was nothing more 
to be cured in me. It was hardly worth his 
fee to be told that ; I knew it myself. Still I 
did not grudge him the money. What I minded 
was the mistake which he made at first. 
When they picked me up from the pavement 
where I lay unconscious, and somebody had 
mercifully sent a bullet through my horse’s 
head, I was carried to Doctor Archer, and 
he, pronouncing my brain affected, placed me 
in his private asylum where I was obliged to 
endure treatment for insanity. At last he 
decided that I was well, and I, knowing that 
my mind had always been as sound as his, if 
not sounder, “ paid my tuition ” as he jokingly 
called it, and left. I told him, smiling, that 
I would get even with him for his mistake, and 
he laughed heartily, and asked me to call 
once in a while. I did so, hoping for a chance 
to even up accounts, but he gave me none, 
and I told him I would wait. 

The fall from my horse had fortunately left 
no evil results ; on the contrary it had changed 
my whole character for the better. From a 
lazy young man about town, I had become 
active, energetic, temperate, and above all — 
oh, above all else — ambitious. There was 
only one thing which troubled me, I laughed 
at my own uneasiness, and yet it troubled me. 

During my convalescence I had bought and 
read for the first time, “ The King in Yellow.” 
I remember after finishing the first act that it 
occurred to me that I had better stop. I 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS, 

started up and flung the book into the fire- 
place ; the volume struck the barred grate and 
fell open on the hearth in the fire-light. If I 
had not caught a glimpse of the opening 
words in the second act I should never have 
finished it, but as I stooped to pick it up, my 
eyes became riveted to the open page, and 
with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy 
so poignant that I suffered in every nerve, I 
snatched the thing out of the coals and crept 
shaking to my bedroom, where I read it and 
reread it, and wept and laughed and trembled 
with a horror which at times assails me yet. 
This is the thing that troubles me, for I can- 
not forget Carcosa where black stars hang in 
the heavens ; where the shadows of men’s 
thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the 
twin suns sink into the Lake of Hali ; and my 
mind will bear forever the memory of the 
Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, 
as the writer has cursed the world with this 
beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in 
its simplicity, irresistible in its truth — a 
world which now trembles before the King 
in Yellow. When the French Government 
seized the translated copies which had just 
arrived in Paris, London, of course, be- 
came eager to read it. It is well known how 
the book spread like an infectious disease, 
from city to city, from continent to continent, 
barred out here, confiscated there, denounced 
by press and pulpit, censured even by the 
most advanced of literary anarchists. No 
definite principles had been violated in those 
wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no 
convictions outraged. It could not be judged 
by any known standard, yet, although it was 
acknowledged that the supreme note of art 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


14 

• 

had been struck in “ The King in Yellow,” all 
felt that human nature could not bear the 
strain, nor thrive on words in which the 
essence of purest poison luj-ked. The very 
banality and innocence of the first act only 
allowed the blow to fall afterward with more 
awful effect. 

It was, I remember, the 13th day of April, 
1920, that the first Government Lethal Cham- 
ber was established on the south side of 
Washington Square, between Wooster Street 
and South Fifth Avenue. The block which 
had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old 
buildings, used as cafes and restaurants for 
foreigners, had been acquired by the Govern- 
ment in the winter of 1*898. The French and 
Italian cafes and restaurants were torn down ; 
the whole block was enclosed by a gilded 
iron railing, and converted into a lovely gar- 
den with lawns, flowers and fountains. In 
the centre of the garden stood a small, white 
building, severely classical in architecture, 
and surrounded by thickets of flowers. Six 
Ionic columns supported the roof, and the 
single door was of bronze. A splendid mar- 
ble group of “The Fates” stood before the 
door, the work of a young American sculptor, 
Boris Yvain, who had died in Paris when only 
twenty-three years old. 

The inauguration ceremonies were in prog- 
ress as I crossed University Place and en- 
tered the square. I threaded my way through 
the silent throng of spectators, but was 
stopped at Fourth Street by a cordon of police. 
A regiment of United States lancers were 
drawn up in a hollow sqjuare around the 
Lethal Chamber. On a raised tribune facing 
Washington Park stood the Governor of New 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. 1 j. 

York, and behind him were grouped the Mayor 
of New York and Brooklyn, the Inspector- 
General of Police, the Commandant of the 
state troops, Colonel Livingston, military aid 
to the President of the United States, General 
Blount, commanding at Governor’s Island, 
Major-General Hamilton, commanding the 
garrison of New York and Brooklyn, Admiral 
Buftby of the fleet in the North River, Surgeon 
General Lanceford, the staff of the National 
Free Hospital, Senators Wyse and Franklin 
of New York, and the Commissioner of Public 
Works. The tribune was surrounded by a 
squadron of hussars of the National Guard. 

The Governor was finishing his reply to the 
short speech of the Surgeon-General. I heard 
him say : “ The laws prohibiting suicide and 
providing punishment for any attempt at self- 
destruction have been repealed. The Govern- 
ment has seen fit to acknowledge the right of 
man to end an existence which may have 
become intolerable to him, through physical 
suffering or mental despair. It is believed 
that the community will be benefited by the 
removal of such people from their midst. 
Since the passage of this law, the number of 
suicides in the United States has not increased. 
Now that the Government has determined to 
establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, 
town and village in the country, it remains to 
be seen whether or not that class of human 
creatures from whose desponding ranks new 
victims of self-destruction fall daily will ac- 
cept the relief thus provided.” He paused, 
and turned to the white Lethal Chamber. 
The silence in the street was absolute. 
“ There a painless death awaits him who can 
no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If 


x 5 the king in yellow. 

death is welcome let him seek it there.” Then 
quickly turning to the military aid of the 
President’s household, he said, “ I declare the 
Lethal Chamber open,” and again facing the 
vast crowd he cried in a clear voice : “ Citizens 
of New York and of the United States of 
America, through me the Government de- 
clares the Lethal Chamber to be open.” 

The solemn hush was broken by a sharp 
cry of command, the squadron of hussars 
filed after the Governor’s carriage, the lancers 
wheeled and formed along Fifth Avenue to 
wait for the commandant of the garrison, and 
the mounted police followed them. I left the 
crowd to gape and stare at the white marble 
Death Chamber, and, crossing South Fifth 
Avenue, walked along the western side of 
that thoroughfare to Bleecker Street. Then I 
turned to the right and stopped before a 
dingy shop which bore the sign, 

Hawberk, Armorer. 

I glanced in at the doorway and saw Haw- 
berk busy in his little shop at the end of the 
hall. He looked up, and catching sight of 
me cried in his deep, hearty voice, “Come in, 
Mr. Castaigne ! ” Constance, his daughter, 
rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, 
and held out her pretty hand, but I saw the 
blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and 
knew that it was another Castaigne she had 
expected, my Cousin Louis. I smiled at her 
confusion and complimented her on the ban- 
ner which she was embroidering from a 
colored plate. Old Hawberk sat riveting the 
worn greaves of some ancient suit of armor, 
and the ting ! ting ! ting ! of his little hammer 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS, 


*7 

sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. Pres- 
ently he dropped his hammer, and fussed 
about for a moment with a tiny wrench. The 
soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure 
through me. I loved to hear the music of 
steel brushing against steel, the mellow 
shock of the mallet on thigh pieces, and 
the jingle of chain armor. That was the 
only reason I went to see Hawberk. He 
had never interested me personally, nor did 
Constance, except for the fact of her being in 
love with Louis. This did occupy my atten- 
tion, and sometimes even kept me awake at 
night. But I knew in my heart that all would 
come right, and that I should arrange their 
future as I expected to arrange that of my 
kind doctor, John Archer. However, I should 
never have troubled myself about visiting 
them just then, had it not been, as I say, that 
the music of the tinkling hammer had for me 
this strong fascination. I would sit for hours, 
listening and listening, and when a stray sun- 
beam struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it 
gave me was almost too keen to endure. My 
eyes would become fixed, dilating with a 
pleasure that stretched every nerve almost to 
breaking, until some movement of the old 
armorer cut off the ray of sunlight, then, still 
thrilling secretly, I leaned back and listened 
again to the sound of the polishing rag, 
swish ! swish ! rubbing rust from the rivets. 

Constance worked with the embroidery 
over her knees, now and then pausing to ex- 
amine more closely the pattern in the colored 
plate from the Metropolitan Museum. 

“ Who is this for ? ” I asked. 

Hawberk explained, that in addition to the 
treasures of armor in the Metropolitan Museum 
2 


jg THE KING IN YELLOW . 

of which he had been appointed armorer, he 
also had charge of several collections belong- 
ing to rich amateurs. This was the missing 
greave of a famous suit which a client of his 
had traced to a little shop in Paris on the Quai 
d’Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated for 
and secured the greave, and now the suit was 
complete. He laid down his hammer and 
read me the history of the suit, traced since 
1450 from owner to owner until it was ac- 
quired by Thomas Stainbridge. When his 
superb collection was sold, this client of Haw- 
berk’s bought the suit, and since then the 
search for the missing greave had been 
pushed until it, was, almost by accident, located 
in Paris. 

“ Did you continue the search so per- 
sistently without any certainty of the greave 
being still in existence ? ” I demanded. 

“Of course,” he replied coolly. 

Then for the first time I took a personal 
interest in Hawberk. 

“ It was worth something to you,” I ven- 
tured. 

“ No,” he replied, laughing, “ my pleasure 
in finding it was my reward.” 

“ Have you no ambition .to be rich ? ” I 
asked smiling. 

“ My one ambition is to be the best armorer 
in the world,” he answered gravely. 

Constance asked me if I had seen the 
ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber. She her- 
self had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway 
that morning, and had wished to see the in- 
auguration, but her father wanted the banner 
finished, and she had stayed at his request. 

“ Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, 
there ? ” she asked, with the slighest tremor 
of her soft eyelashes. 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS, 

‘‘No/' I replied carelessly. “Louis’ regi- 
ment is manoeuvreing out in Westchester 
County.” I rose and picked up my hat and cane. 

“ Are you going*- upstairs to see the lunatic 
again ? ” laughed old Hawberk. If Hawberk 
knew how I loathe that word “lunatic,” he 
would never use it in my presence. It rouses 
certain feelings within me which I do not care 
to explain. However, I answered him quietly : 
“ I think I shall drop in and see Mr. Wilde 
for a moment or two.” 

“ Poor fellow,” said Constance, with a shake 
of her head, “ it must be hard to live 
alone year after year, poor, crippled and 
almost demented. It is very good of you, Mr. 
Castaigne, to visit him as often as you do.” 

“ I think he is vicious,” observed Hawberk, 
beginning again with his hammer. I listened 
to the golden tinkle on the greave plates ; 
when he had finished I replied : 

“ No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the 
least demented. His mind is a wonder 
chamber, from which he can extract treasures 
that you and I would give years of our lives 
to acquire.” 

Hawberk laughed. 

I continued a little impatiently : “ He knows 
history as no one else could know it. Nothing, 
however trivial, escapes his search, and his 
memory is so absolute, so precise in details, 
that were it known in New York that such a 
man existed, the people could not honor him 
enough.” 

“ Nonsense,” muttered Hawberk, searching 
on the floor for a fallen rivet. 

“ Is it nonsense,” I asked, managing to sup- 
press what I felt, “is it nonsense when he says 
that the tassets apd cuissards of the enamelled 


20 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


suit of armor commonly known as the 

* Prince’s Emblazoned ’ can be found among 
a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken 
stoves and ragpicker’s refuse in a garret in 
Pell Street ? ” 

Hawberk’s hammer fell to the ground, but 
he picked it up and asked, with a great deal 
of calm, how I knew that the tassets and left 
cuissard were missing from the “ Prince’s 
Emblazoned.” 

“ I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned 
it to me the other day. He said they were in 
the garret of 998 Pell Street.” 

“ Nonsense,” he cried, but I noticed his 
hand trembling under his leathern apron. 

“ Is this nonsense too ? ” I asked pleasantly. 
“ is it nonsense when Mr. Wilde continually 
speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire and 
of Miss Constance ” 

I did not finish, for Constance had started to 
her feet with terror written on every feature. 
Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed 
his leathern apron. “ That is impossible,” 
he observed, “ Mr. Wilde may know a great 
many things ” 

“ About armor, for instance, and the 

* Prince’s Emblazoned,’ ” I interposed, smiling. 

“ Yes,” he continued, slowly, “ about armor 
also — may be — but he is wrong in regard to 
the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, 
killed his wife’s traducer years ago, and went 
to Australia where he did not long survive 
his wife.” 

“ Mr. Wilde is wrong,” murmured Con- 
stance. Her lips were blanched but her voice 
was sweet and calm. 

“ Let us agree, if you please, that in this 
one circumstance Mr. Wilde is wrong,” 5 s*id. 


THE EE PA IEEE OP EE PUT A TIONS. 


21 


II. 



CLIMBED the three dilapidated 
flights of stairs, which I had so often 
climbed before, and knocked at a 
small door at the end ol the corridor. 
Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in. 

When he had double-locked the door and 
pushed a heavy chest against it, he came and 
sat down beside me, peering up into my face 
with his little light-colored eyes. Half a dozen 
new scratches covered his nose and cheeks, 
and the silver wires which supported his arti- 
ficial ears had become displaced. I thought 
I had never seen him so hideously fascinating. 
He had no ears. The artificial ones, which 
now stood out at an angle from the fine wire, 
were his one weakness. They were made of wax 
and painted a shell pink, but the rest of his face 
was yellow. He might better have revelled 
in the luxury of some artificial fingers for his 
left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but 
it seemed to cause him no inconvenience, and 
he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was 
very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, 
but his arms were magnificently developed, 
and his thighs as thick as any athlete’s. Still, 
the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde 
was that a man of his marvellous intelligence 
and knowledge should have such a head. It 
was flat and pointed, like the heads of many 
of those unfortunates whom people imprison 
in asylurps for the weak-minded. Many called 


22 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


him insane but I knew him to be as sane as I 
was. 

I do not deny that he was eccentric ; the 
mania he had for keeping that cat and teasing 
her until she flew at his face like a demon, 
was certainly eccentric. I never could under- 
stand why he kept the creature, nor what 
pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his 
room with the surly, vicious beast. I remem- 
ber once, glancing up from the manuscript I 
was studying by the light of some tallow dips, 
and seeing Mr. Wilde squatting motionless on 
his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with ex- 
citement, while the cat, which had risen from 
her place before the stove, came creeping 
across the floor right at him. Before I could 
move she flattened her belly to the ground, 
crouched, trembled, and sprang into his face. 
Howling and foaming they rolled over and 
over on the floor, scratching and clawing, 
until the cat screamed and fled under the 
cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his 
back, his limbs contracting and curling up 
like the legs of a dying spider. He was 
eccentric. 

Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, 
and, after studying my face, picked up a dog’s- 
eared ledger and opened it. 

“Henry B. Matthews,” he read, “book- 
keeper with Whysot Whysot and Company, 
dealers in church ornaments. Called April 
3d. Reputation damaged on the race-track. 
Known as a welcher. Reputation to be re- 
paired by August 1st. Retainer Five Dol- 
lars.” He turned the page and ran his fin- 
gerless knuckles down the closely-written 
columns. 

“ P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTA TIONS. 

Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey. Reputation 
damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as 
soon as possible. Retainer $100. 

He coughed and added, “ Called, April 
6th.” 

“ Then you are not in need of money, Mr. 
Wilde,” I inquired. 

“Listen,” he coughed again. 

“ Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester 
Park, New York City, Called April 7th. Rep- 
utation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be 
repaired by October 1st. Retainer $500. 

“ Note. — C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U. 
S. S. ‘ Avalanche ’ ordered home from South 
Sea Squadron October 1st.” 

“Well,” I said, “the profession of a Re- 
pairer of Reputations is lucrative.” 

His colorless eyes sought mine. “ I only 
wanted to demonstrate that I was correct. You 
said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer 
of Reputations ; that even if I did succeed in 
certain cases it would cost me more than I 
would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred 
men in my employ, who are poorly paid, but 
who pursue the work with an enthusiasm 
which possibly may be born of fear. These 
men enter every shade and grade of society ; 
some even are pillars of the most exclusive 
social temples ; others are the prop and pride 
of the financial world ; still others, hold un- 
disputed sway among the ‘Fancy and the 
Talent.’ I choose them at my leisure from 
those who reply to my advertisements. It is 
easy enough, they are all cowards. I could 
treble the number in twenty days if I wished. 
So you see, those who have in their keeping 
the reputations of their fellow-citizens, / have 
in my pay.” 


24 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ They may turn on you,” I suggested. 

He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears, 
and adjusted the wax substitutes. “ I think 
not,” he murmured thoughtfully, “ I seldom 
have to apply the whip, and then only once. 
Besides they like their wages.” 

“ How do you apply the whip ? ” I de- 
manded. 

His face for a moment was awful to look 
upon. His eyes dwindled to a pair of green 
sparks. 

“ I invite them to come and have a little 
chat with me,” he said in a soft voice. 

A knock at the door interrupted him, and 
his face resumed its amiable expression. 

“ Who is it ? ” he inquired. 

“ Mr. Steylette,” was the answer. 

“Come to-morrow,” replied Mr. Wilde. 

“Impossible,” began the other, but was 
silenced by a sort of bark from Mr. Wilde. 

“ Come to-morrow,” he repeated. 

We heard somebody move away from the 
door and turn the corner by the stairway. 

“ Who is that ? ” I asked. 

“ Arnold Steylette, Owner and Editor in 
Chief of the great New York daily.” 

He drummed on the ledger with his finger- 
less hand adding: “ I pay him very badly, but 
he thinks it a good bargain.” 

“ Arnold Steylette ! ” I repeated amazed. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Wilde with a self-satisfied 
cough. 

The cat, which had entered the room as he 
spoke, hesitated, looked up at him and snarled. 
He climbed down from the chair and squat- 
ting on the floor, took the creature into his 
arms and caressed her. The cat ceased 
snarling and presently began a loud purring 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. 

which seemed to increase in timbre as he 
stroked her. 

“ Where are the notes ? ” I asked. He 
pointed to the table, and for the hundredth 
time I picked up the bundle of manuscript 
entitled 

“ THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMER- 
ICA.” 

One by one I studied the well-worn pages, 
worn only by my own handling, and although 
I knew all by heart, from the beginning, 
“ When from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, 
and Aldebaran,” to “ Castaigne, Louis de Cal- 
vados, born December 19th, 1877,” I read it 
with an eager rapt attention, pausing to re- 
peat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially 
on “ Hildred de Calvados, only son of Hildred 
Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne, first 
in succession,” etc., etc. 

When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and 
coughed. 

“ Speaking of your legitimate ambition,” he 
said, “ how do Constance and Louis get 
along ? ” 

“ She loves him,” I replied simply. 

The cat on his knee suddenly turned and 
struck at his eyes, and he flung her off and 
climbed on to the chair opposite me. 

“ And Doctor Archer ! But that’s a mat- 
ter you can settle any time you wish,” he 
added. 

“ Yes,” I replied, “ Doctor Archer can wait, 
but it is time I saw my cousin Louis.” 

“ It is time,” he repeated. Then he took 
another ledger from the table and ran over 
the leaves rapidly. 


26 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ We are now in communication with ten 
thousand men,” he muttered. “ We can 
count on one hundred thousand within the 
first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight 
hours the state will rise en masse. The coun- 
try follows the state, and the portion that will 
not, I mean California and the Northwest, 
might better never have been inhabited. I 
shall not send them the Yellow Sign.” 

The blood rushed to my head, but I only 
answered, “A new broom sweeps clean.” 

“The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon 
pales before that which could not rest until it 
had seized the minds of men and controlled 
even their unborn thoughts,” said Mr. Wilde. 

“ You are speaking of the King in Yellow,” 
I groaned with a shudder. 

“ He is a king whom Emperors have 
served.” 

“ I am content to serve him,” I replied. 

Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his 
crippled hand. “ Perhaps Constance does not 
love him,” he suggested. 

I started to reply, but a sudden burst of 
military music from the street below drowned 
my voice. The twentieth dragoon regiment, 
formerly in garrison at Mount St. Vincent, 
was returning from the manoeuvres in West- 
chester County, to its new barracks on East 
Washington Square. It was my cousin’s 
regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in 
their pale-blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty 
busbys and white riding breeches with the 
double yellow stripe, into which their limbs 
seemed molded. Every other squadron was 
armed with lances, from the metal points of 
which fluttered yellow and white pennons. 
The band passed, playing the regimental 


THE REPAIRER OR RE PUT A T10HS. 2 J 

march, then came the colonel and staff, the 
horses crowding and trampling, while their 
heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons 
fluttered from their lance points. The troop- 
ers, who rode with the beautiful English seat, 
looked brown as berries from their bloodless 
campaign among the farms of Westchester, 
and the music of their sabres against the stir- 
rups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines 
was delightful to me. I saw Louis riding with 
his squadron. He was as handsome an officer 
as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had 
mounted a chair by the window, saw him too, 
but said nothing. Louis turned and looked 
straight at Hawberk’s shop as he passed, and 
I could see the flush on his brown cheeks. I 
think Constance must have been at the win- 
dow. When the last troopers had clattered 
by, and the last pennons vanished into South 
5th Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out of his 
chair and dragged the chest away from the 
door. 

“Yes,” he said, “it is time that you saw 
your cousin Louis.” 

He unlocked the door and I picked up my 
hat and stick and stepped into the corridor. 
The stairs were dark. Groping about, I set 
my foot on something soft, which snarled 
and spit, and I aimed a murderous blow at 
the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters 
against the balustrade, and the beast scurried 
back into Mr. Wilde’s room. 

Passing Hawberk’s door again I saw him 
still at work on the armor, but I did not stop, 
and stepping out into Bleecker Street, I fol- 
lowed it to Wooster, skirted the grounds of 
the Lethal Chamber, and crossing Washington 
Park went straight to my rooms in the Bene- 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


2 $ 

dick. Here I lunched comfortably, read the 
Herald and the Meteor , and finally went to 
the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time 
combination. The three and three-quarter 
minutes which it is necessary to wait, while 
the time lock is opening, are to me golden 
moments. From the instant I set the com- 
bination to the moment when I grasp the 
knobs and swing back the solid steel doors, 
I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those 
moments must be like moments passed in 
Paradise. I know what I am to find at the 
end of the time limit. I know what the mas- 
sive safe holds secure for me, for me alone, 
and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is 
hardly enhanced when the safe opens and I 
lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest 
gold, blazing with diamonds. I do this every 
day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last 
touching again the diadem, only seems to in- 
crease as the days pass. It is a diadem fit for 
a King among kings, an Emperor among 
emperors. The King in Yellow might scorn 
it, but it shall be worn by his royal servant. 

I held it in my arms until the alarm on the 
safe rang harshly, and then tenderly, proudly, 
I replaced it and shut the steel doors. I walked 
slowly back into my study, which faces Wash- 
ington Square, and leaned on the window-sill. 
The afternoon sun poured into my windows, 
and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of 
the elms and maples in the park, now covered 
with buds and tender foliage. A flock of 
pigeons circled about the tower of the 
Memorial Church ; sometimes alighting on 
the purple tiled roof, sometimes wheeling 
downward to the lotos fountain in front of the 
marble arch. The gardeners were busy with 


THE EE PA IEEE OF EEPUTA TlOtfS. 2 g 

the flower beds around the fountain, and the 
freshly-turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. 
A lawn mower, drawn by a fat white horse, 

I clinked across the green sward, and watering 
carts poured showers of spray over the 
asphalt drives. Around the statue of Peter 
|; Stuyvesant, which in 1897 had replaced the 
monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, 
children played in the spring sunshine, and 
nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby-carriages 
with a reckless disregard tor the pasty-faced 
occupants, which could probably be explained 
by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon 
troopers languidly lolling on the benches. 
Through the trees, the Washington Memorial 
Arch glistened like silver in the sunshine, 
and beyond, on the eastern extremity of the 
square the gray stone barracks of the dragoons, 
and the white granite artillery stables were 
alive with color and motion. 

I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the 
corner of the square opposite. A few curious 
people still lingered about the gilded iron rail- 
ing, but inside the grounds the paths were 
deserted. I watched the fountains ripple and 
sparkle ; the sparrows had already found this 
new bathing nook, and the basins were 
, crowded with the dusty-feathered little things. 
Two or three white peacocks picked their way 
across the lawns, and a drab-colored pigeon 
sat so motionless on the arm of one of the 
Fates, that it seemed to be a part of the 
sculptured stone. 

As I was turning carelessly away, a slight 
commotion in the group of curious loiterers 
around the gates attracted my attention.. A 
young man had entered, and was advancing 
with nervous strides along the gravel path 


THE KING IN VELIO IK 


3 ° 

which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal 
Chamber. He paused a moment before 
the Fates, and as he raised his head to 
those three mysterious faces, the pigeon 
rose from its sculptured perch, circled 
about for a moment and wheeled to the east. 
The young man pressed his hands to his face, 
and then with an undefinable gesture sprang 
up the marble steps, the bronze doors closed 
behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers 
slouched away, and the frightened pigeon re- 
turned to its perch in the arms of Fate. 

I put on my hat and went out into the park 
for a little walk before dinner. As I crossed 
the central driveway a group of officers 
passed, and one of them called out, “ Hello, 
Hildred,” and came back to shake hands with 
me. It was my Cousin Louis, who stood smil- 
ing and tapping his spurred heels with his 
riding-whip. 

“Just back from Westchester,” he said; 
“ been doing the bucolic ; milk and curds, you 
know, dairy-maids in sunbonnets, who say 
‘ haeow ’ and ‘ I don’t think’ when you tell 
them they are pretty. I’m nearly dead for a 
square meal at Delmonico’s. What’s the 
news ? ” 

“There is none,” I replied pleasantly. “I 
saw your regiment coming in this morning.” 

“ Did you ? I didn’t see you. Where were 
you ? ” 

“ In Mr. Wilde’s window.” 

“ Oh, hell ! ” he began impatiently, “ that 
man is stark mad ! I don't understand why 
you ” 

He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, 
and begged my pardon. 

“ Really, old chap,” he said, “ I don’t mean to 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. 3 j 

run down a man you like, but for the life of me 
I can’t see what the deuce you find in common 
with Mr. Wilde. He’s not well-bred, to put 
it generously ; he’s hideously deformed ; his 
head is the head of a criminally insane person. 
You know yourself he’s been in an asylum ” 

“ So have I,” I interrupted calmly. 

Louis looked startled and confused for a 
moment, but recovered and slapped me 
heartily on the shoulder. 

“You were completely cured,” he began, 
but I stopped him again. 

“ I suppose you mean that I was simply 
acknowledged never to have been insane.” 

“Of course that — that’s what I meant,” he 
laughed. 

I disliked his laugh because I knew it was 
forced, but I nodded gaily and asked him 
where he was going. Louis looked after 
his brother officers who had now almost 
reached Broadway. 

“We had intended to sample a Brunswick 
cocktail, but to tell you the truth I was anx- 
ious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk in- 
stead. Come along, I’ll make you my ex- 
cuse.” 

We found old Hawberk, neatly attired in a 
fresh spring suit, standing at the door of his 
shop and sniffing the air. 

“ I had just decided to take Constance for a 
little stroll before dinner,” he replied to the 
impetuous volley of questions from Louis. 
“We thought of walking on the park terrace 
along the North River.” 

At that moment Constance appeared and 
grew pale and rosy by turns as Louis bent 
over her small gloved fingers. I tried to ex- 
cuse myself, alleging an engagement up-town, 


THE KING IN YELLOFF. 


32 

but Louis and Constance would not listen, and 1 
saw I was expected to remain and engage old 
Hawberk’s attention. After all it would be just 
as well if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought, 
and when they hailed a Spring Street horse- 
car, I got in after them and took my seat be- 
side the armorer. 

The beautiful line of parks and granite ter- 
races overlooking the wharves along the 
North River, which were built in 1910 and 
finished in the autumn of 1917, had become 
one of the most popular promenades in the 
metropolis. They extended from the battery 
to 190th Street, overlooking the noble river 
and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore 
and the Highlands opposite. Cafes and res- 
taurants were scattered here and there among 
the trees, and twice a week military bands 
from the garrison played in the kiosques on 
the parapets. 

We sat down in the sunshine on the bench 
at the foot of the equestrian statue of General 
Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to 
shield her eyes, and she and Louis began a 
murmuring conversation which was impos- 
sible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his 
ivory-headed cane, lighted an excellent cigar, 
the mate to which I politely refused, and 
smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above 
the Staten Island woods, and the bay was 
dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun- 
warmed sails of the shipping in the harbor. 

Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, 
their decks swarming with people, railroad 
transports carrying lines of brown, blue and 
white freight cars, stately sound steamers, de- 
classe tramp steamers, coasters, dredgers, 
scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. 33 

impudent little tugs puffing and whistling offi- 
ciously ; — these were the crafts which churned 
the sunlit waters as far as the eye could reach. 
In calm contrast to the hurry of sailing ves- 
sel and steamer a silent fleet of white war- 
ships lay motionless in midstream. 

Constance’s merry laugh aroused me from 
my reverie. 

“ What are you staring at ? ” she inquired. 

“ Nothing — the fleet,” I smiled. 

Then Louis told us what the vessels were, 
pointing out each by its relative position 
to the old Red Fort on Governor’s Island. 

“That little cigar-shaped thing is a torpedo 
boat,” he explained ; “ there are four more ly- 
ing close together. They are the ‘ Tarpon,’ the 
‘Falcon,’ the ‘Sea Fox’ and the ‘Octopus.’ 
The gun-boats just above are the ‘ Princeton,’ 
the ‘Champlain,’ the ‘Still Water’ and the 
‘Erie.’ Next to them lie the cruisers ‘Farra- 
gut’ and ‘Los Angeles,’ and above them the 
battle-ships * California ’ and ‘ Dakota,’ and the 
* Washington ’ which is the flag-ship. Those 
two squatty-looking chunks of metal which 
are anchored there off Castle William are 
the double-turreted monitors ‘Terrible’ and 
‘Magnificent’; behind them lies the ram, 
‘ Osceola.’ ” 

Constance looked at him with deep ap- 
proval in her beautiful eyes. “ What loads 
of things you know for a soldier,” she said, 
and we all joined in the laugh which fol- 
lowed. 

Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and 
offered his arm to Constance, and they strolled 
away along the river wall. Hawberk watched 
them for a moment and then turned to me. 

“Mr. Wilde was right,” he said. “ I have 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


34 

found the missing tassets and left cuissard of) 
the * Prince’s Emblazoned,’ in a vile old junk 
garret in Pell Street.” 

“ 998 ?” I inquired, with a smile. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man,” I 
observed. 

“ I want to give him the credit of this most 
important discovery,” continued Hawberk. 
“ And I intend it shall be known that he is 
entitled to the fame of it.” 

“ He won’t thank you for that,” I answered 
sharply ; “ please say nothing about it.” 

“Do you know what it is worth?” said 
Hawberk. 

“ No, fifty dollars, perhaps.” 

“ It is valued at five hundred, but the owner 
of the * Prince’s Emblazoned ’ will give two 
thousand dollars to the person who completes 
his suit ; that reward also belongs to Mr. 
Wilde.” 

“ He doesn’t want it ! He refuses it ! ” I 
answered angrily. “ What do you know 
about Mr. Wilde ? He doesn’t need the 
money. He is rich — or will be — richer than 
any living man except myself. What will we 
care lor money then — what will we care, he 
and I, when — when ” 

“ When what ? ” demanded Hawberk, as- 
tonished. 

“You will see,” I replied, on my guard 
again. 

He looked at me narrowly, much as Doctor 
Archer used to, and I knew he thought I was 
mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate 
for him that he did not use the word lunatic 
just then. 

“ No,” I replied to his unspoken thought, 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. 


35 

“ I am not mentally weak ; my mind is as 
healthy as Mr. Wilde’s. I do not care to ex- 
plain just yet what I have on hand, but it is an 
investment which will pay more than mere 
gold, silver and precious stones. It will 
secure the happiness and prosperity of a con- 
tinent — yes, a hemisphere ! ” 

“ Oh,” said Hawberk. 

“ And eventually,” I continued more quietly, 
“ it will secure the happiness of the whole 
world.” 

“ And incidentally your own happiness and 
prosperity as well as Mr. Wilde’s ? ” 

“Exactly,” I smiled. But I could have 
throttled him for taking that tone. 

He looked at me in silence for a while and 
then said very gently, “ Why don’t you give 
up your books and studies, Mr. Castaigne, 
and take a tramp among the mountains some- 
where or other ? You used to be fond of 
fishing. Take a cast or two at the trout in 
the Rangelys.” 

“ I don’t care for fishing any more,” I 
answered, without a shade of annoyance in 
my voice. 

“ You used to be fond of everything,” he 
continued ; “ athletics, yachting, shooting 
riding ” 

“ I have never cared to ride since my fall,” 
I said quietly. 

“ Ah, yes, your fall,” he repeated, looking 
away from me. 

I thought this nonsense had gone far 
enough, so I turned the conversation back to 
Mr. Wilde ; but he was scanning my face 
again in a manner highly offensive to me. 

“ Mr. Wilde,” he repeated, “ do you know 
what he did this afternoon ? He came down 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


3 6 

stairs and nailed a sign over the hall door next 
to mine ; it read : 

Mr. Wilde, 

Repairer of Reputations. 

3 d Bell. 

Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations 
can be ? ” 

“ I do,” I replied, suppressing the rage 
within. 

“ Oh,” he said again. 

Louis and Constance came strolling by and 
stopped to ask if we would join them. Haw- 
berk looked at his watch. At the same moment 
a puff of smoke shot from the casemates of 
Castle William, and the boom of the sunset 
gun rolled across the water and was re- 
echoed from the Highlands opposite. The flag 
came running down from the flag-pole, the 
bugles sounded on the white decks of the war- 
ships, and the first electric light sparkled out 
from the Jersey shore. 

As I turned into the city with Hawberk 1 
heard Constance murmur something to Louis 
which I did not understand ; but Louis whis- 
pered “ My darling,” in reply ; and again, walk- 
ing ahead with Hawberk through the square 
I heard a murmur of “sweetheart,” and 
“my own Constance,” and I knew the time 
had nearly arrived when I should speak of 
important matters , with my Cousin Louis. 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. 


57 


III. 


NE morning early in May I stood 
before the steel safe in my bedroom, 
trying on the golden jewelled crown. 
The diamonds flashed fire as I turned 
to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold 
burned like a halo about my head. I 
remembered Camilla’s agonized scream and 
the awful words echoing through the dim 
streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines 
in the first act, and I dared not think 
of what followed — dared not, even in the 
spring sunshine, there in my own room, 
surrounded with familiar objects, reassured 
by the bustle from the street and the voices of 
the servants in the hallway outside. For those 
poisoned words had dropped slowly into my 
heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet 
and is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem 
from my head and wiped my forehead, but I 
thought of Hastur and of my own rightful 
ambition, and I remembered Mr. Wilde as I 
had last left him, his face all torn and bloody 
from the claws of that devil’s creature, and 
what he said — ah, what he said ! The 
alarm bell in the safe began to whirr harshly, 
and I knew my time was up ; but I would not 
heed it, and replacing the flashing circlet upon 
my head I turned defiantly to the mirror. I 
stood for a long time absorbed in the chang- 
ing expression of my own eyes. The mirror 
reflected a face which was like my own, but 



fHE KING IN YELLOW ; 


38 

whiter, and so thin that I hardly recognized 
it. And all the time I kept repeating between 
my clenched teeth, “ The day has come ! the 
day has come ! ” while the alarm in the safe 
whirred and clamored, and the diamonds 
sparkled and flamed above my brow. I heard 
a door open but did not heed it. It was only 
when I saw two faces in the mirror ; — it was 
only when another face rose over my shoulder, 
and two other eyes met mine. I wheeled like 
a flash and seized a long knife from my dress- 
ing-table, and my cousin sprang back very 
pale, crying : •• Hildred ! for God’s sake ! ” 
then as my hand fell, he said : “ It is I, Louis, 
don’t you know me ? ” I stood silent. I 
could not have spoken for my life. He walked 
up to me and took the knife from my hand. 

“ What is all this ? ” he inquired, in a gentle 
voice. “ Are you ill ? ” 

“ No,” I replied. But I doubt if he heard 
me. 

“Come, come, old fellow,” he cried, “ take 
off that brass crown and toddle into the study. 
Are you going to a masquerade ? What’s all 
this theatrical tinsel anyway ? ” 

I was glad he thought the crown was made 
of brass and paste, yet I didn’t like him any 
the better for thinking so. I let him take it 
from my hand, knowing it was best to humor 
him. He tossed the splendid diadem in the 
air, and catching it, turned to me smiling. 

“ It’s dear at fifty cents,” he said. “ What’s 
it for ? ” 

I did not answer, but took the circlet from 
his hands/ and placing it in the safe shut the 
massive steel door. The alarm ceased its 
infernal din at once. He watched me curi- 
ously, but did not seem to notice the sudden, 


THE EE PA IEEE OF EE PUT A TIONS. ^g 

ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak 
of the safe as a biscuit box. Fearing lest he 
might examine the combination I led the way 
into my study. Louis threw himself on the 
sofa and flicked at flies with his eternal riding- 
whip. He wore his fatigue uniform with the 
braided jacket and jaunty cap, and I noticed 
that his riding-boots were all splashed with 
red mud. 

“ Where have you been,” I inquired. 

“ Jumping mud creeks in Jersey,” he said. 
44 1 haven’t had time to change yet ; I was 
rather in a hurry to see you. Haven’t you got 
a glass of something ? I’m dead tired ; been 
in the saddle twenty-four hours.” 

I gave him some brandy from my medicinal 
store, which he drank with a grimace. 

“ Damned bad stuff,” he observed. “ I’ll give 
you an address where they sell brandy that is 
brandy.” 

“ It’s good enough for my needs,” I said 
indifferently. “ I use it to rub my chest with.” 
He stared and flicked at another fly. 

“ See here, old fellow,” he began, “ I’ve got 
something to suggest to you. It’s four years 
now that you’ve shut yourself up here like an 
owl, never going anywhere, never taking any 
healthy exercise, never doing a damn thing but 
poring over those books up there on the 
mantelpiece.” 

He glanced along the row of shelves. 
44 Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon ! ” he read. 
For heaven sake, have you nothing but Napo- 
leons there ? ” 

“ I wish they were bound in gold,” I said. 
“ But wait, yes, there is another book, « The 
King in Yellow.’” I looked him steadily in 
the eye. 


4 © 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ Have you never read it ? ” I asked. 

“ I ? No, thank God ! I don’t want to be 
driven crazy.” 

I saw he regretted his speech as soon as 
he had uttered it. There is only one word 
which I loathe more than I do lunatic and 
that word is crazy. But I controlled myself 
and asked him why he thought “ The King 
in Yellow” dangerous. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, hastily. “I 
only remember the excitement it created and 
the denunciations from pulpit and press. I 
believe the author shot himself after bringing 
forth this monstrosity, didn’t he ? ” 

“ I understand he is still alive,” I answered. 

“ That’s probably true,” he muttered ; 
“ bullets couldn’t kill a fiend like that.” 

“ It is a book of great truths,” I said. 

“ Yes,” he replied, “ of ‘ truths ’ which send 
men frantic and blast their lives. I don’t 
care if the thing is, as they say, the very 
supreme essence of art. It’s a crime to have 
written, it and I for one shall never open its 
pages.” 

“ Is that what you have come to tell me ? ” 
£ asked. 

“ No,” he said, “ I came to tell you that I 
am going to be married.” 

I believe for a moment my heart ceased to 
beat, but I kept my eyes on his face. 

“ Yes,” he continued, smiling happily, 
“ married to the sweetest girl on earth.” 

“Constance Hawberk,” I said mechanically. 

“ How did you know ? ”he cried, astonished. 
“ I didn’t know it myself until that evening 
last April, when we strolled down to the em- 
bankment before dinner.” 

When is it to be ? ” I asked. 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. 4I 

“ It was to have been next September, but 
an hour ago a despatch came ordering our 
regiment to the Presidio, San Francisco. We 
leave at noon to-morrow. To-morrow,” he 
repeated. “ Just think, Hildred, to-morrow 
I shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew 
breath in this jolly world, for Constance will 
go with me.” 

I offered him my hand in congratulation, 
and he seized and shook it like the good- 
natured fool he was — or pretended to be. 

“ I am going to get my squadron as a 
wedding present,” he rattled on. “ Captain 
and Mrs. Louis Castaigne, eh, Hildred ? ” 

Then he told me where it was to be and 
who were to be there, and made me promise 
to come and be best man. I set my teeth 
and listened to his boyish chatter without 
showing what I felt, but — 

I was getting to the limit of my endurance, 
and when he jumped up, and, switching his 
spurs till they jingled, said he must go, I did 
not detain him. 

“ There’s one thing I want to ask of you,” I 
said quietly. 

“Out with it, it’s promised,” he laughed. 

“ I want you to meet me for a quarter of an 
hour’s talk to-night.” 

“Of course, if you wish,” he said, some- 
what puzzled. “ Where ? ” 

“ Anywhere, in the park there.” 

“ What time, Hildred ? ” 

“ Midnight.” 

“ What in the name of ” he began, but 

checked himself and laughingly assented. I 
watched him go down the stairs and hurry 
away, his sabre banging at every stride. He 
turned into Bleecker Street, and I knew he 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


42 

was going to see Constance. I gave him ten 
minutes to disappear and then followed in his 
footsteps, taking with me the jewelled crown 
and the silken robe embroidered with the 
Yellow Sign. When I turned into Bleecker 
Street, and entered the doorway which bore 
the sign, 

Mr. Wilde, 

Repairer of Reputations. 

3d Bell, 

I saw old Hawberk moving about in his shop, 
and imagined I heard Constance’s voice in 
the parlor ; but I avoided them both and 
hurried up the trembling stairways to Mr. 
Wilde’s apartment. I knocked, and entered 
without ceremony. Mr. Wilde lay groaning 
on the floor, his lace covered with blood, his 
clothes torn to shreds. Drops of blood were 
scattered about over the carpet, which had 
also been ripped and frayed in the evidently 
recent struggle. 

“ It’s that cursed cat,” he said, ceasing his 
groans, and turning his colorless eyes to me ; 
“she attacked me while I was asleep. I be- 
lieve she will kill me yet.” 

This was too much, so I went into the 
kitchen and seizing a hatchet from the pantry, 
started to find the infernal beast and settle 
her then and there. My search was fruitless, 
and after a while I gave it up and came back 
to find Mr. Wilde squatting on his high chair 
by the table. He had washed his face and 
changed his clothes. The great furrows 
which the cat’s claws had ploughed up in 
his face he had filled with collodion, and a 
rag hid the wound in his throat. I told him I 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. ^ 

should kill the cat when I came across her, 
but he only shook his head and turned to the 
open ledger before him. He read name after 
name of the people who had come to him in 
regard to their reputation, and the sums he 
had amassed were startling. 

“ I put on the screws now and then/* he 
explained. 

“ One day or other some of these people 
will assassinate you,” I insisted. 

“ Do you think so ? ” he said, rubbing his 
mutilated ears. 

It was useless to argue with him, so I took 
down the manuscript entitled Imperial Dynasty 
of America, for the last time I should ever 
take it down in Mr. Wilde’s study. I read it 
through, thrilling and trembling with pleasure. 
When I had finished Mr. Wilde took the 
manuscript and, turning to the dark passage 
which leads from his study to his bed- 
chamber, called out in a loud voice, “ Vance.” 
Then for the first time, I noticed a man 
crouching there in the shadow. How I had 
overlooked him during my search for the cat, I 
cannot imagine. 

“Vance, come in,” cried Mr. Wilde. 

The figure rose and crept toward us, and I 
shall never forget the face that he raised to 
mine, as the light from the window illumi- 
nated it. 

“Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne,” said Mr. 
Wilde. Before he had finished speaking, the 
man threw himself on the ground before the 
table, crying and gasping, “ Oh, God ! Oh, 
my God ! Help me ! Forgive me — Oh, Mr. 
Castaigne, keep that man away. You can- 
not, you cannot mean it ! You are different 
— save me ! I am broken down — I was in a 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


44 

madhouse and now — when all was coming 
right — when I had forgotten the King — the 
King in Yellow and — but I shall go mad 
again — I shall go mad ” 

His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. 
Wilde had leapt on him and his right hand en- 
circled the man’s throat. When Vance fell 
in a heap on the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered 
nimbly into his chair again, and rubbing his 
mangled ears with the stump of his hand, 
turned to me and asked me for the ledger. I 
reached it down from the shelf and he opened 
it. After a moment’s searching among the 
beautifully written pages, he coughed compla- 
cently, and pointed to the name Vance. 

“ Vance,” he read aloud, “ Osgood Oswald 
Vance.” At the sound of his name, the man 
on the floor raised his head and turned a con- 
vulsed face to Mr. Wilde. His eyes were in- 
jected with blood, his lips tumefied. “Called 
April 28th,” continued Mr. Wilde. “Occupa- 
tion, cashier in the Seaforth National Bank; 
has served a term of forgery at Sing Sing, 
from whence he was transferred to the Asylum 
for the Criminal Insane. Pardoned by the 
Governor of New York, and discharged from 
the Asylum, January 19, 1918. Reputafion 
damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumors that 
he lives beyond his income. Reputation to be 
repaired at once. Retainer $1,500. 

“ Note — Has embezzled sums amounting to 
$30,000 since March 20th, 1919, excellent 
family, and secured present position through 
uncle’s influence. Father, President of Sea- 
forth Bank.” 

I looked at the man on the floor. 

“Get up, Vance,” said Mr. Wilde in a 
gentle voice. Vance rose as if hypnotized. 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. ^ 

“ He will do as we suggest now,” observed 
Mr. Wilde, and opening the manuscript, he 
read the entire history of the Imperial Dynasty 
of America. Then in a kind and soothing mur- 
mur he ran over the important points with 
Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes 
were so blank and vacant that I imagined he 
had become half-witted, and remarked it to 
Mr. Wilde who replied that it was of no con- 
sequence anyway. Very patiently we pointed 
out to Vance what his share in the affair 
would be, and he seemed to understand after 
a while. Mr. Wilde explained the manuscript, 
using several volumes on Heraldry, to sub- 
stantiate the result of his researches. He 
mentioned the establishment of the Dynasty 
in Carcosa, the lakes which connected Hastur, 
Aldebaran and the mystery of the Hyades. 
He spoke ofCassilda and Camilla, and sounded 
the cloudy depths of Demhe, and the Lake of 
Hali. “ The scolloped tatters of the King in 
Yellow must hide Yhtill forever,” he muttered, 
but I do not believe Vance heard him. Then 
by degrees he led Vance along the ramifica- 
tions of the Imperial family, to Uoht and 
Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom ol Truth, 
to Aldones, and then tossing aside his manu- 
script and notes, he began the wonderful story 
of the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled I 
watched him. He threw up his head, his 
long arms were stretched out in a magnificent 
gesture of pride and power, and his eyes 
blazed deep in their sockets like two emeralds. 
Vance listened stupefied. As for me, when 
at last Mr. Wilde had finished, and pointing 
to me, cried, “The cousin of the King!” my 
head swam with excitement. 

Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, 


THE KINO IN YELLOW. 


46 

I explained to Vance why I alone was worthy 
of the crown and why my cousin must be ex- 
iled or die. I made him understand that my 
cousin must never marry, even after renounc- 
ing all his claims, and how that least of all he 
should marry the daughter of the Marquis of 
Avonshire and bring England into the ques- 
tion. I showed him a list of thousands of 
names which Mr. Wilde had drawn up ; every 
man whose name was there had received the 
Yellow Sign which no living human being 
dared disregard. The city, the state, the 
whole land, were ready to rise and tremble 
before the Pallid Mask. 

The time had come, the people should know 
the son of Hastur, and the whole world bow 
to the Black Stars which hang in the sky over 
Carcosa. 

Vance leaned on the table, his head buried 
in his hands. Mr. Wilde drew a rough sketch 
on the margin of yesterday’s Herald with a 
bit of lead pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk’s 
rooms. Then he wrote out the order and 
affixed the seal, and shaking like a palsied 
man I signed my first writ of execution with 
my name Hildred-Rex. 

Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and un- 
locking the cabinet, took a long square box 
from the first shelf. This he brought to the 
table and opened. A new knife lay in the tis- 
sue paper inside and I picked it up and handed 
it to Vance, along with the order and the plan 
of Hawberk’s apartment. Then Mr. Wilde 
told Vance he could go ; and he went, sham- 
bling like an outcast of the slums. 

I sat for a while watching the daylight fade 
behind the square tower of the Judson Memor- 
ial Church, and finally, gathering up the man- 


THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS , ^ 

uscript and notes, took my hat and started for 
the door. 

Mr. Wilde watched me in silence. When 
I had stepped into the hall I looked back. 
Mr. Wildes small eyes were still fixed on me. 
Behind him, the shadows gathered in the fad- 
ing light. Then I closed the door behind me 
and went out into the darkening streets. 

I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I 
was not hungry. A wretched half-starved 
creature, who stood looking across the street 
at the Lethal Chamber, noticed me and came 
up to tell me a tale of misery. I gave him 
money, I don’t know why, and he went away 
without thanking me. An hour later another 
outcast approached and whined his story. I 
had a blank bit of paper in my pocket, on 
which was traced the Y ellow Sign and I handed 
it to him. He looked at it stupidly for a 
moment, and then with an uncertain glance 
at me, folded it with what seemed to me exag- 
gerated care and placed it in his bosom. 

The electric lights were sparkling among 
the trees, and the new moon shone in the sky 
above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome 
waiting in the square ; I wandered from the 
Marble Arch to the artillery stables, and 
back again to the lotos fountain. The flowers 
and grass exhaled a fragrance which troubled 
me. The jet of the fountain played in the 
moonlight, and the musical splash of falling 
drops reminded me of the tinkle of chained 
mail in Hawberk’s shop. But it was not so 
fascinating, and the dull sparkle of the moon- 
light on the water brought no such sensations of 
exquisite pleasure, as when the sunshine played 
over the polished steel of a corselet on Haw- 
berk’s knee. I watched the bats darting and 


THE KING IN YELLOW, 


48 

turning above the water plants in the fountain 
basin, but their rapid, jerky flight set my 
nerves on edge, and I went away again to walk 
aimlessly to and fro among the trees. 

The artillery stables were dark, but in the cav- 
alry barracks the officer’s windows were brill- 
iantly lighted, and the sallyport was constantly 
filled with troopers in fatigue, carrying straw 
and harness and baskets filled with tin dishes. 

Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was 
changed, while I wandered up and down the 
asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was 
nearly time. The lights in the barracks went 
out one by one, the barred gate was closed, 
and every minute or two an officer passed in 
through the side wicket, leaving a rattle of 
accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the 
night air. The square had become very silent. 
The last homeless loiterer had been driven 
away by the gray-coated park policeman, the 
car tracks along Wooster Street were deserted, 
and the only sound which broke the stillness 
was the stamping of the sentry’s horse and the 
ring of his sabre against the saddle pom- 
mel. In the barracks, the officer’s quarters 
were still lighted, and military servants 
passed and repassed before the bay windows. 
Twelve o’clock sounded from the new spire of 
St. Francis Xavier, and at the last stroke of 
the sad-toned bell a figure passed through the 
wicket beside the portcullis, returned the 
salute of the sentry, and crossing the street 
entered the square and advanced toward the 
Benedick apartment house. 

“ Louis,” I called. 

The man pivoted on his spurred heels and 
came straight toward me. 

“ Is that you, Hildred ? ” 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. ^g 

“ Yes, you are on time.” 

I took his offered hand, and we strolled to- 
ward the Lethal Chamber. 

He rattled on about his wedding- and the 
graces of Constance, and their future prospects, 
calling my attention to his captain’s shoulder- 
straps, and the triple gold arabesque on his 
sleeve and fatigue cap. I believe I listened as 
much to the music of his spurs and sabre as I 
<Jid to his boyish babble, and at last we stood 
under the elms on the Fourth Street corner 
of the square opposite the Lethal Chamber. 
Then he laughed and asked me what I wanted 
with him. I motioned him to a seat on a 
bench under the electric light, and sat down 
beside him. He looked at me curiously, with 
that same searching glance which I hate and 
fear so in doctors. I felt the insult of his 
look, but he did not know it, and I carefully 
concealed my feelings. 

“ Well, old chap,” he enquired, “ what can 
I do for you ? ” 

“ I drew from my pocket the manuscript 
and notes of the Imperial Dynasty of America, 
and looking him in the eye said : 

“ I will tell you. On your word as a soldier, 
promise me to read this manuscript from be- 
ginning to end, without asking me a question. 
Promise me to read these notes in the same 
way, and promise me to listen to what I have 
to tell later.” 

“ I promise, if you wish it,” he said pleasant- 
ly, “ Give me the paper, Hildred.” 

He began to read, raising his eyebrows 
with a puzzled whimsical air, which made me 
tremble with suppressed anger. As he ad- 
vanced, his eyebrows contracted, and his lips 
seemed to form the word, “ rubbish.” 

4 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


5 ° 

Then he looked slightly bored, but appar- 
ently for my sake read, with an attempt at 
interest, which presently ceased to be an 
effort. He started when in the closely- 
tvritten pages he came to his own name, and 
when he came to mine he lowered the paper, 
and looked sharply at me for a moment. But 
he kept his word, and resumed his reading, 
and I let the half-formed question die on his 
lips unanswered. When he came to the end 
and read the signature of Mr. Wilde, he 
folded the paper carefully and returned it to 
me. I handed him the notes, and he settled 
back, pushing his fatigue cap up to his fore- 
head, with a boyish gesture, which I remem- 
bered sO well in school. I watched his face 
as he read, and when he finished I took the 
notes with the manuscript, and placed them 
in my pocket. Then I unfolded a scroll 
marked with the Yellow Sign. He saw the 
sign, but he did not seem to recognize it, and 
I called his attention to it somewhat sharply. 

“ Well ” he said, “ I see it. What is it ?” 

“ It is the Yellow Sign,” I said, angrily. 

“ Oh, that’s it, is it ? ” said Louis, in that 
flattering voice, which Doctor Archer used to 
employ with me, and would probably have 
employed again, had I not settled his affair 
for him. 

I kept my rage down and answered as 
steadily as possible, “ Listen, you have engaged 
your word ? ” 

“ I am listening, old chap,” he replied 
soothingly. 

I began to speak very calmly. 

“ Dr. Archer, having by some means be- 
come possessed of the secret of the Imperial 
Succession, attempted to deprive me of my 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. $ j 

right, alleging that because of a fall from my 
horse four years ago, I had become mentally 
deficient. He presumed to place me under 
restraint in his own house in hopes of either 
driving me insane or poisoning me. I have 
not forgotten it. I visited him last night 
and the interview was final.” 

Louis turned quite pale, but did not move. 
I resumed triumphantly, “ There are yet 
three people to be interviewed in the interests 
of Mr. Wilde and myself. They are my 
cousin Louis, Mr. Hawberk, and his daughter 
Constance.” 

Louis sprang to his feet and I arose also, 
and flung the paper marked with the Yellow 
Sign to the ground. 

“ Oh, I don’t need that to tell you what I 
have to say,” I cried with a laugh of triumph. 
“You must renounce the crown to me, do 
you hear, to me.” 

Louis looked at me with a startled air, but 
recovering himself said kindly, “ Of course I 
renounce the — what is it I must renounce ? ” 

“The crown,” I said angrily. 

“Of course,” he answered, “I renounce it. 
Come, old chap, I’ll walk back to your rooms 
with you.” 

“ Don’t try any of your doctor’s tricks on 
me,” I cried, trembling with fury. “ Don’t act 
as if you think I am insane.” 

“What nonsense,” he replied. “Come, it’s 
getting late, Hildred.” 

“No,” I shouted, “you must listen. You 
cannot marry, I forbid it. Do you hear ? I 
forbid it. You shall renounce the crown, and 
in reward I grant you exile, but if you refuse 
you shall die.” 

He tried to calm me but I was roused at 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


52 

last, and drawing my long knife barred his 
way. 

Then I told him how they would find Dr. 
Archer in the cellar with his throat open, and 
I laughed in his face when I thought of Vance 
and his knife, and the order signed by me. 

“ Ah, you are the King,” I cried, “ but I shall 
be King. Who are you to keep me from Em- 
pire over all the habitable earth ! I was born 
the cousin of a king, but I shall be King ! ” 

Louis stood white and rigid before me. 
Suddenly a man came running up Fourth 
Street, entered the gate of the Lethal Temple, 
traversed the path to the bronze doors at full 
speed, and plunged into the death chamber 
with the cry of one demented, and I laughed 
until I wept tears, for I had recognized Vance, 
and knew that Hawberk and his daughter 
were no longer in my way. 

“Go,” I cried to Louis, “you have ceased 
to be a menace. You will never marry Con- 
stance now, and if you marry any one else in 
your exile, I will visit you as I did my doctor 
last night. Mr. Wilde takes charge of you 
to-morrow.” Then I turned and darted into 
South Fifth Avenue, and with a cry of terror 
Louis dropped his belt and sabre and followed 
me like the wind. I heard him close behind 
me at the corner of Bleecker Street, and I 
dashed into the doorway under Hawberk’s 
sign. He cried, “ Halt, or I fire ! ” but when 
he saw that I flew up the stairs leaving Haw- 
berk’s shop below, he left me, and I heard him 
hammering and shouting at their door as 
though it were possible to arouse the dead. 

Mr. Wilde’s door was open, and I en- 
tered crying, “ It is done, it is done ! Let the 
nations rise and look upon their King ! ” but 


THE REPAIRER OF RE PUT A TIONS. 53 

I could not find Mr. Wilde, so I went to the 
cabinet and took the splendid diadem from its 
case. Then I drew on the white silk robe, 
embroidered with the yellow sign, and placed 
the crown upon my head. At last I was 
King, King by my right in Hastur, King be- 
cause I knew the mystery of the Hyades, and 
my mind had sounded the depths of the Lake 
of Hali. I was King ! The first gray pencil- 
lings of dawn would raise a tempest which 
would shake two hemispheres. Then as I 
stood, my every nerve pitched to the highest 
tension, faint with the joy and splendor of my 
thought, without, in the dark passage, a man 
groaned. 

I seized the tallow dip and sprang to the 
door. The cat passed me like a demon, and 
the tallow dip went out, but my long knife 
flew swifter than she, and I heard her screech, 
and I knew that my knife had found her. For 
a moment I listened to her tumbling and 
thumping about in the darkness, and then 
when her frenzy ceased, I lighted a lamp and 
raised it over my head. Mr. Wilde lay on 
the floor with his throat torn open. At first 
I thought he was dead, but as I looked, a 
green sparkle came into his sunken eyes, his 
mutilated hand trembled, and then a spasm 
stretched his mouth from ear to ear. For a 
moment my terror and despair gave place to 
hope, but as I bent over him his eyeballs 
rolled clean around in his head, and he died. 
Then while I stood, transfixed with rage and 
despair, seeing my crown, my empire, every 
hope and every ambition, my very life, lying 
prostrate there with the dead master, they 
came, seized me from behind, and bound me 
until my veins stood out like cords, and my 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


54 

voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied 
screams. But I still raged, bleeding and in- 
furiated among them, and more than one 
policeman felt my sharp teeth. Then when I 
could no longer move they came nearer ; I 
saw old Hawberk, and behind him my cousin 
Louis’ ghastly face, and farther away, in the 
corner, a woman, Constance, weeping softly. 

“Ah! I see it now!” I shrieked. “You 
have seized the throne and the empire. Woe ! 
woe to you who are crowned with the crown 
of the King in Yellow ! ” 

[Editor’s note, — Mr. Castaigne died yes* 
terday in the Asylum for Criminal Insane.] 


THE MASK. 














* 
















































THE MASK. 


Camilla : You, sir, should unmask. 

Stranger: Indeed? 

Cassilda : Indeed it’s time. We all have laid aside 
disguise but you. 

Stranger : I wear no mask. 

CAMiLLa: (Terrified, aside to Cassilda.) No mask? No 
mask f 

The King in Yellow : Act i — Scene 2d. 


I. 


LTHOUGH I knew nothing of chem- 
istry, I listened fascinated. He 
picked up an Easter lily which 
Genevieve had brought that morn- 
ing from Notre Dame and dropped it into the 
basin. Instantly the liquid lost its crystalline 
clearness. For a second the lily was en- 
veloped in a milk-white foam, which disap- 
peared, leaving the fluid opalescent. Chang- 
ing tints of orange and crimson played over 
the surface, and then what seemed to be a ray 
of pure sunlight struck through from the bot- 
tom where the lily was resting. At the same 
instant he plunged his hand into the basin and 
drew out the flower. “ There is no danger,” 
he explained, “ if you choose the right mo- 
ment. That golden ray is the signal.” 

He held the lily toward me and I took it in 
my hand. It had turned to stone, to the 
purest marble. 

“ You see,” he said, “ it is without a flaw. 
What sculptor could reproduce it ? ” 



57 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


S8 

The marble was white as snow, but in 
its depths the veins of the lily were tinged 
with palest azure, and a faint flush lingered 
deep in its heart. 

“ Don’t ask me the reason of that,” he 
smiled, noticing my wonder. “ I have no idea 
why the veins and heart are tinted, but they 
always are. Yesterday I tried one of Gene- 
vieve’s gold fish, — there it is.” 

The fish looked as if sculptured in marble. 
But if you held it to the light the stone was 
beautifully veined with a faint blue, and from 
somewhere within came a rosy light like the 
tint which slumbers in an opal. I looked into 
the basin. Once more it seemed filled with 
clearest crystal. 

“ If I should touch it now ? ” I demanded. 

“I don’t know,” he replied, “ but you had 
better not try.” 

“ There is one thing I’m curious about,” I 
said, “ and that is where the ray of sunlight 
came from.” 

“ It looked like a sunbeam true enough,” he 
said. “ I don’t know, it always comes when I 
immerse any living thing. Perhaps,” he con- 
tinued smiling, “ perhaps it is the vital spark 
of the creature escaping to the source from 
whence it came.” 

I saw he was mocking and threatened 
him with a mahl-stick, but he only laughed 
and changed the subject. 

“ Stay to lunch. Genevieve will be here 
directly.” 

“ I saw her going to early mass,” I said, 
“ and she looked as fresh and sweet as that 
lily — before you destroyed it.” 

“ Do you think I destroyed it ? ” said Boris 
gravely. 


THE MASK. 


59 

“ Destroyed, preserved, how can we tell ? ” 

We sat in the corner of a studio near his 
unfinished group of “ The Fates.” He leaned 
back on the sofa, twirling a sculptor’s chisel 
and squinting at his work. 

“By the way,” he said, “I have finished 
pointing up that old academic Ariadne and I 
suppose it will have to go to the Salon. It’s 
all I have ready this year, but after the success 
the ‘ Madonna,’ brought me I feel ashamed 
to send a thing like that.” 

The “ Madonna,” an exquisite marble for 
which Genevieve had sat, had been the sensa- 
tion of last year’s Salon. I looked at the 
Ariadne. It was a magnificent piece of tech- 
nical work, but I agreed with Boris that the 
world would expect something better of him 
than that. Still it was impossible now to 
think of finishing in time for the Salon, 
that splendid terrible group half shrouded 
in the marble behind me. “The Fates” 
would have to wait. 

We were proud of Boris Yvain. We claimed 
him and he claimed us on the strength of his 
having been born in America, although his 
father was French and his mother was a Rus- 
sian. Every one in the Beaux Arts called him 
Boris. And yet there were only two of us 
whom he addressed in the same familiar way ; 
Jack Scott and myself. 

Perhaps my being in love with Genevieve 
had something to do with his affection for 
me. Not that it had ever been acknowledged 
between us. But after all was settled, and 
she had told me with tears in her eyes that it 
was Boris whom she loved, I went over to his 
house and congratulated him. The perfect 
cordiality of that interview did not deceive 


6o 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


either of us, I always believed, although to one 
at least it was a great comfort. I do not 
think he and Genevieve ever spoke of the mat- 
ter together, but Boris knew. 

Genevieve was lovely. The Madonna-like 
purity of her face might have been inspired by 
the Sanctus in Gounod’s Mass. But I was al- 
ways glad when she changed that mood for 
what we called her “ April Manoeuvres.” 
She was often as variable as an April day. 
In the morning grave, dignified and sweet, at 
noon laughing, capricious, at evening what- 
ever one least expected. I preferred her so 
rather than in that Madonna-like tranquil- 
lity which stirred the depths of my heart. I 
was dreaming of Genevieve when he spoke 
again. 

“ What do you think of my discovery, 
Alec ?” 

“ I think it wonderful.” 

“ I shall make no use of it, you know, 
beyond satisfying my own curiosity so far as 
may be and the secret will die with me.” 

“ It would be rather a blow to sculpture, 
would it not ? We painters lose more than 
we ever gain by photography.” 

Boris nodded, playing with the edge of the 
chisel. 

“ This new vicious discovery would corrupt 
the world of art. No, I shall never confide 
the secret to anyone,” he said slowly. 

It would be hard to find any one less 
informed about such phenomena than myself ; 
but of course I had heard of mineral springs 
so saturated with silica that the leaves and 
twigs which fell into them were turned to 
stone after a time. I dimly comprehended the 
process, how the silica replaced the vegetable 


THE MASK. 


6 1 


matter, atom by atom, and the result was a 
duplicate of the object in stone. This I con- 
fess had never interested me greatly, and as 
for the ancient fossils thus produced, they 
disgusted me. Boris, it appeared, feeling 
curiosity instead of repugnance, had investi- 
gated the subject,, and had accidentally 
stumbled on a solution which, attacking the 
immersed object with a ferocity unheard of, in 
a second did the work of years. This was all 
I could make out of the strange story he had 
just been telling me. He spoke again after a 
long silence. 

“ I am almost frightened when I think what 
I have found. Scientists would go mad over 
the discovery. It was so simple too ; it dis- 
covered itself. When I think of that formula, 
and that new element precipitated in metallic 
scales ” 

“ What new element ? ” 

“ Oh, I haven’t thought of naming it, and I 
don’t believe I ever shall. There are enough 
precious metals now in the world to cut 
throats over.” 

I pricked up my ears. “ Have you struck 
gold, Boris ? ” 

“ No, better ; — but see here, Alec ! ” he 
laughed, starting up. “You and I have all 
we need in this world. Ah ! how sinister and 
covetous you look already ! ” 1 laughed too, 

and told him I was devoured by the desire for 
gold, and we had better talk of something 
else ; so when Genevieve came in shortly 
after, we had turned our backs on alchemy. 

Genevieve was dressed in silvery gray from 
head to foot. The light glinted along the soft 
curves of her fair hair as she turned her cheek 
to Boris ; then she saw me and returned my 


62 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


greeting. She had never before failed to blow 
me a kiss from the tips of her white fingers, 
and I promptly complained of the omission. 
She smiled and held out her hand which 
dropped almost before it had touched mine ; 
then she said, looking at Boris, 

“You must ask Alec to stay for luncheon.” 
This also was something new. She had 
always asked me herself until to-day. 

“ I did,” said Boris shortly. 

“ And you said yes, I hope,” she turned to 
me with a charming conventional smile. I 
might have been an acquaintance of the day 
before yesterday. I made her a low bow. 
“J’avais bien l’honneur, madame,” but refusing 
to take up our usual bantering tone she 
murmured a hospitable commonplace and 
disappeared. Boris and I looked at one an- 
other. 

“ I had better go home, don’t you think ? *' 
I asked. 

“Hanged if I know ! ” he replied frankly. 

While we were discussing the advisability 
of my departure Genevieve reappeared in the 
doorway without her bonnet. She was wonder- 
fully beautiful, but her color was too deep and 
her lovely eyes were too bright. She came 
straight up to me and took my arm. 

“Luncheon is ready. Was I cross, Alec ? 
I thought I had a headache but I haven’t. 
Come here, Boris ; ” and she slipped her other 
arm through his. “ Alec knows that after you 
there is no one in the world whom I like as well 
as I like him, so if he sometimes feels snubbed 
it won’t hurt him.” 

“ A labonheur ! ”1 cried, “who says there 
are no thunderstorms in April ? ” 

“ Are you ready ? ” chanted Boris. “ Aye 


ready ; ” and arm in arm we raced into the 
dining-room scandalizing the servants. After 
all we were not so much to blame ; Genevieve 
was eighteen, Boris was twenty-three and 1 
not quite twenty-one. 


64 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


II. 



|OME work that I was doing about 
this time on the decorations for 
Genevieve’s boudoir kept me con- 
stantly at the quaint little hotel in the 
rue Sainte-Cecile. Boris and I in those days 
labored hard but as we pleased, which was 
fitfully, and we all three, with Jack Scott, 
idled a great deal together. 

One quiet afternoon I had been wandering 
alone over the house examining curios, prying 
into odd corners, bringing out sweetmeats 
and cigars from strange hiding-places, and at 
last I stopped in the bathing-room. Boris all 
over clay stood there washing his hands. 

The room was built of rose-colored marble 
excepting the floor which was tesselated in 
rose and gray. In the centre was a square 
pool sunken below the surface of the floor ; 
steps led down into it, sculptured pillars 
supported a frescoed ceiling. A delicious 
marble Cupid appeared to have just alighted 
on his pedestal at the upper end of the room. 
The whole interior was Boris’ work and mine. 
Boris, in his working clothes of white canvas, 
scraped the traces of clay and red modelling 
wax from his handsome hands, and coquetted 
over his shoulder with the Cupid. 

“ I see you,” he insisted, “ don’t try to look 
the other way and pretend not to see me. You 
know who made you, little humbug ! ” 

It was always my rdle to interpret Cupid’s 


THE MASK. 


6 s 

sentiments in these conversations, and when 
my turn came I responded in such a manner, 
that Boris seized my arm and dragged me 
toward the pool, declaring he would duck me. 
Next instant he dropped my arm and turned 
pale. “ Good God ! ” he said, “ I forgot the 
pool is full of the solution ! ” 

I shivered a little, and drily advised him to 
remember better where he had stored the 
precious liquid. 

“ In Heaven’s name why do you keep a 
small lake of that grewsome stuff here of all 
places ! ” I asked. 

“ I want to experiment on something large,” 
he replied. 

“ On me, for instance ! ” 

“ Ah ! that came too close for jesting ; but I 
do want to watch the action of that solution 
on a more highly organized living body ; 
there is that big white rabbit,” he said, fol- 
lowing me into the studio. 

Jack Scott, wearing a paint-stained jacket, 
came wandering in, appropriated all the Ori- 
ental sweetmeats he could lay his hands on, 
looted the cigarette case, and finally he and 
Boris disappeared together to visit the Luxem- 
bourg gallery, where a new silver bronze by 
Rodin and a landscape of Monet’s were claim- 
ing the exclusive attention of artistic France. 
I went back to the studio, and resumed my 
work. It was a Renaissance screen, which 
Boris wanted me to paint for Genevieve’s 
boudoir. But the small boy who was unwill- 
ingly dawdling through a series of poses for 
it, to-day refused all bribes to be good. He 
never rested an instant in the same position, 
and inside of five minutes, I had as many dif- 
ferent outlines of the little beggar. 


66 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ Are you posing-, or are you executing a 
song and dance, my friend ? ” I inquired. 

“Whichever monsieur pleases,” he replied 
with an angelic smile. 

Of course I dismissed him for the day, and 
of course I paid him for the full time, that 
being the way we spoil our models. 

After the young imp had gone, I made a 
few perfunctory daubs at my work, but was 
so thoroughly out of humor, that it took me 
the rest of the afternoon to undo the damage 
I had done, so at last I scraped my palette, 
stuck my brushes in a bowl of black soap, and 
strolled into the smoking-room. I really be- 
lieve that, excepting Genevieve’s apartments, 
no room in the house was so free from the per- 
fume of tobacco as this one. It was a queer 
chaos of odds and ends hung with threadbare 
tapestry. A sweet-toned old spinet in good 
repair stood by the window. There were 
stands of weapons, some old and dull, others 
bright and modern, festoons of Indian and 
Turkish armor over the mantel, two or three 
good pictures, and a pipe-rack. It was here 
that we used to come for new sensations in 
smoking. I doubt if any type of pipe ever ex- 
isted which was not represented in that rack. 
When we had selected one, we immediately 
carried it somewhere else and smoked it ; for 
the place was, on the whole, more gloomy 
and less inviting than any in the house. But 
this afternoon, the twilight was very soothing, 
the rugs and skins on the floor looked brown 
and soft and drowsy ; the big couch was piled 
with cushions, I found my pipe and curled up 
there for an unaccustomed smoke in the smok- 
ing-room. I had chosen one with a long flex- 
ible stem, and lighting it fell to dreaming. 


THE MASK. 5^ 

After a while it went out, but I did not stir. I 
dreamed on and presently fell asleep. 

I awoke to the saddest music I had ever 
heard. The room was quite dark, I had no 
idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight 
silvered one edge of the old spinet, and the 
polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as 
perfume floats above a box of sandal wood. 
Some one rose in the darkness, and came 
away weeping quietly, and I was fool enough 
to cry out “Genevieve ! ” 

She dropped at my voice, and I had time to 
curse myself while I made a light and tried 
to raise her from the floor. She shrank away 
with a murmur of pain. She was very quiet, 
and asked for Boris. I carried her to the 
divan, and went to look for him, but he was 
not in the house, and the servants were gone 
to bed. Perplexed and anxious, I hurried 
back to Genevieve. She lay where I had left 
her, looking very white. 

“ I can’t find Boris nor any of the servants,” 
I said. 

“ I know,” she answered faintly, “ Boris has 
gone to Ept with Mr. Scott. I did not re- 
member when I sent you for him just now.” 

“But he can’t get back in that case before 
to-morrow afternoon, and — are you hurt ? 
Did I frighten you into falling ? What an 
awful fool I am, but I was only half awake.” 

“ Boris thought you had gone home before 
dinner. Do please excuse us for letting you 
stay here all this time.” 

“ I have had a long nap,” I laughed, “ so 
sound that I did not know whether I was still 
asleep or not when I found myself staring at 
a figure that was moving toward me, and 
called out your name. Have you been trying 


68 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


the old spinet ? You must have played very 
softly.” 

I would tell a thousand more lies worse 
than that one to see the look of relief that 
came into her face. She smiled adorably and 
said in her natural voice : “ Alec, I tripped 
on that wolfs head, and I think my ankle is 
sprained. Please call Marie and then go 
home.” 

I did as she bade me and left her there when 
the maid came in. 


THE MASK , 


69 


III. 

T noon next day when I called, I 
found Boris walking restlessly about 
his studio. 

“ Genevieve is asleep just now,” 
he told me, “ the sprain is nothing, but why 
should she have such a high fever ? The doc- 
tor can’t account for it ; or else he will not,” 
he muttered. 

“ Genevieve has a fever ? ” I asked. 

“ I should say so, and has actually been a 
little light-headed at intervals all night. The 
idea ! gay little Genevieve, without a care in 
the world, — and she keeps saying her heart’s 
broken, and she wants to die 1 ” 

My own heart stood still. 

Boris leaned against the door of his studio, 
looking down, his hands in his pockets, his 
kind, keen eyes clouded, a new line of trouble 
drawn “ over the mouth’s good mark, that 
made the smile.” The maid had orders to 
summon him the instant Genevieve opened 
her eyes. We waited and waited, and Boris 
growing restless wandered about, fussing with 
modelling wax and red clay. Suddenly he 
started for the next room. “Come and see 
my rose-colored bath full of death,” he cried. 

“ Is it death ? ” I asked to humor his mood. 

“ You are not prepared to call it life, I sup- 
pose,” he answered. As he spoke he plucked 
a solitary gold fish squirming and twisting out 
of its globe. “ We’ll send this one after the 



THE KING IN YELLOW. 


7 0 

other — wherever that is,” he said. There was 
feverish excitement in his voice. A dull weight 
of fever lay on my limbs and on my brain as 
I followed him to the fair crystal pool with its 
pink-tinted sides ; and he dropped the creature 
in. Falling, its scales flashed with a hot 
orange gleam in its angry twistings and con- 
tortions ; the moment it struck the liquid it 
became rigid and sank heavily to the bottom. 
Then came the milky foam, the splendid hues 
radiating on the surface and then the shaft of 
pure serene light broke through from seem- 
ingly infinite depths. Boris plunged in his 
hand and drew out an exquisite marble thing, 
blue-veined, rose-tinted and glistening with 
opalescent drops. 

“ Child’s play,” he muttered, and looked 
wearily, longingly at me, — as if I could answer 
such questions ! But Jack Scott came in and 
entered into the “ game ” as he called it with 
ardor. Nothing would do but to try the ex- 
periment on the white rabbit then and there. I 
was willing that Boris should find distraction 
from his cares, but I hated to see the life go 
out of a warm, living creature and I declined 
to be present. Picking up a book at random 
I sat down in the studio to read. Alas, I had 
found “The King in Yellow.” After a few 
moments which seemed ages, I was putting it 
away with a nervous shudder, when Boris and 
Jack came in bringing their marble rabbit. At 
the same time the bell rang above and a cry 
came from the sick room. Boris was gone 
like a flash, and the next moment he called, 
“Jack, run for the doctor; bring him back 
with you. Alec, come here.” 

I went and stood at her door. A fright- 
ened maid came out in haste and ran away 


THE MASK. 


71 

to fetch some remedy. Genevieve, sitting 
bolt upright, with crimson cheeks and 
glittering eyes, babbled incessantly and re- 
sisted Boris’ gentle restraint. He called me 
to help. At my first touch she sighed and 
sank back, closing her eyes, and then — 
then — as we still bent above her, she 
opened them again, looked straight into Boris’ 
face, poor fever-crazed girl, and told her 
secret. At the same instant, our three lives 
turned into new channels ; the bond that had 
held us so long together snapped forever 
and a new bond was forged in its place, for 
she had spoken my name, and as the fever 
tortured her, her heart poured out its load of 
hidden sorrow. Amazed and dumb I bowed 
my head, while my face burned like a live 
coal, and the blood surged in my ears, stupe- 
fying me with its clamor. Incapable of move- 
ment, incapable of speech, I listened to her 
feverish words in an agony of shame and sor- 
row. I could not silence her, I could not look 
at Boris. Then I felt an arm upon my shoul- 
der, and Boris turned a bloodless face to mine. 

“It is not your fault, Alec, don’t grieve so 

if she loves you ” but he could not finish ; 

and as the doctor stepped swiftly into the 
room saying — “ Ah, the fever ! ” I seized Jack 
Scott and hurried him to the street saying, 
“ Boris would rather be alone.” We crossed 
the street to our own apartments and that 
night, seeing I was going to be ill too, he 
went for the doctor again. The last thing I 
recollect with any distinctness was hearing 
Jack say, “ For Heaven’s sake, doctor, what 
ails him, to wear a face like that ? ” and I 
thought of “The King in Yellow” and the 
Pallid Mask. 


72 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I was very ill, for the strain of two years 
which I had endured since that fatal May 
morning when Genevieve murmured, “ I 
love you, but I think I love Boris best ” told 
on me at last. I had never imagined that it 
could become more than I could endure. 
Outwardly tranquil, I had deceived myself. 
Although the inward battle raged night after 
night, and I, lying alone in my room, cursed 
myself for rebellious thoughts unloyal to Boris 
and unworthy of Genevieve, the morning 
always brought relief, and I returned to Gen- 
evieve and to my dear Boris with a heart 
washed clean by the tempests of the night. 

Never in word or deed or thought while 
with them, had I betrayed my sorrow even to 
myself. 

The mask of self-deception was no longer a 
mask for me, it was a part of me. Night 
lifted it, laying bare the stifled truth below ; 
but there was no one to see except myself, and 
when day broke the mask fell back again of 
its own accord. These thoughts passed 
through my troubled mind as I lay sick, but 
they were hopelessly entangled with visions 
of white creatures, heavy as stone, crawling 
about in Boris’ basin, — of the wolfs head 
on the rug, foaming and snapping at Gene- 
vieve, who lay smiling beside it. I thought, too, 
of The King in Yellow wrapt in the 
fantastic colors of his tattered mantle, and 
that bitter cry of Cassilda, “ Not upon us, oh 
King, not upon us !” Feverishly I struggled 
to put it from me, but I saw the lake of Hali, 
thin and blank, without a ripple or wind to 
stir it, and I saw the towers ofCarcosa behind 
the moon. Aldebaran, The Hyades, Alar, 
Hastur, glided through the cloud rifts which 


THE MASK. 


73 

fluttered and flapped as they passed like the 
scolloped tatters of The King in Y ellow. Among 
all these, one sane thought persisted. It never 
ivavered, no matter what else was going on 
/n my disordered mind, that my chief reason 
for existing, was to meet some requirement of 
Boris and Genevieve. What this obligation 
was, its nature, was never clear ; sometimes 
it seemed to be protection, sometimes support, 
through a great crisis. Whatever it seemed 
to be for the time, its weight rested only on 
me, and I was never so ill or so weak that I 
did not respond with my whole soul. There 
were always crowds of faces about me, 
mostly strange, but a few I recognized, Boris 
among them. Afterward they told me that 
this could not have been, but I know that 
once at least he bent over me. It was only a 
touch, a faint echo of his voice, then the 
clouds settled back on my senses, and I lost 
him, but he did stand there and bend over me 
once at least. 

At last, one morning I awoke to find the 
sunlight falling across my bed, and Jack 
Scott reading beside me. I had not strength 
enough to speak aloud, neither could I think, 
much less remember, but I could smile feebly, 
as Jack’s eye met mine, and when he jumped 
up and asked eagerly if I wanted anything, I 
could whisper, “ Yes, Boris.” Jack moved to 
the head of my bed, and leaned down to ar- 
range my pillow : I did not see his face, but 
he answered heartily, “ You must wait Alec, 
you are too weak to see even Boris.” 

I waited and I grew strong ; in a few days 
I was able to see whom I would, but mean- 
while I had thought and remembered. From 
the moment when $11 the past grew clear 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


74 

again in my mind, I never doubted what I 
should do when the time came, and I felt 
sure that Boris would have resolved upon 
the same course so far as he was con- 
cerned ; as for what pertained to me alone, I 
Knew he would see that also as I did. I no 
longer asked for any one. I never inquired 
why no message came from them ; why during 
the week I lay there, waiting and growing 
stronger, I never heard their name spoken. 
Preoccupied with my own searchings for the 
right way, and with my feeble but determined 
fight against despair, I simply acquiesced in 
Jack’s reticence, taking for granted that he 
was afraid to speak of them, lest I should turn 
unruly and insist on seeing them. Mean- 
while I said over and over to myself, how 
it would be when life began again for us all. 
We would take up our relations exactly as 
they were before Genevieve fell ill, Boris 
and I would look into each other’s eyes and 
there would be neither rancor nor cowardice 
nor mistrust in that glance. I would be with 
them again for a little while in the dear in- 
timacy of their home, and then, without pre- 
text or explanation, I would disappear from 
their lives forever. Boris would know, 
Genevieve — the only comfort was that she 
would never know. It seemed, as I thought 
it over, that I had found the meaning of that 
sense of obligation which had persisted all 
through my delirium, and the only possible 
answer to it. So, when I was quite ready, I 
beckoned Jack to me one day, and said, 

“ Jack, I want Boris at once ; and take m) 

dearest greeting to Genevieve ” 

When at last he made me understand 
that they were both dead, I fell into a wild 


THE MASK. 


75 

rage that tore all my little convalescent 
strength to atoms. I raved and cursed my- 
self into a relapse, from which I crawled forth 
some weeks afterward a boy of twenty-one 
who believed that his youth was gone forever. 
I seemed to be past the capability of further 
suffering, and one day when Jack handed me 
a letter and the keys to Boris’ house, I took 
them without a tremor and asked him to tell 
me all. It was cruel of me to ask him, but 
there was no help for it, and he leaned wearily 
on his thin hands, to reopen the wound which 
could never entirely heal. He began very 
quietly. 

“ Alec, unless you have a clue that I know 
nothing about, you will not be able to explain 
any more than I, what has happened. I sus- 
pect that you would rather not hear these de- 
tails, but you must learn them, else I would 
spare you the relation. God knows I wish I 
could be spared the telling. I shall use few 
words. 

“ That day when I left you in the doctor’s 
care and came back to Boris, I found him 
working on the ‘Fates.’ Genevieve, he said, 
was sleeping under the influence of drugs. 
She had been quite out of her mind, he said. 
He kept on working, not talking any more, 
and I watched him. Before long, I saw that 
the third figure of the group — the one looking 
straight ahead, out over the world — bore his 
face ; not as you ever saw it, but as it looked 
then and to the end. This is one thing for 
which I should like to find an explanation, but 
I never shall. 

“ Well, he worked and I watched him in 
silence, and we went on that way until nearly 
midnight. Then we heard a door open and 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


76 

shut sharply, and a swift rush in the next 
room. Boris sprang through the doorway 
and I followed ; but we were too late. She 
lay at the bottom of the pool, her hands across 
her breast. Then Boris shot himself through 
the heart.” Jack stopped speaking, drops of 
sweat stood under his eyes, and his thin cheeks 
twitched. “ 1 carried Boris to his room. 
Then I went back and let that hellish fluid 
out of the pool, and turning on all the water, 
washed the marble clean of every drop. 
When at length I dared descend the steps, I 
found her lying there as white as snow. At 
last, when I had decided what was best to do, 
I went into the laboratory, and first emptied 
the solution in the basin into the waste-pipe ; 
then I poured the contents of every jar and 
bottle after it. There was wood in the fire- 
place, so I built a fire, and breaking the locks 
of Boris’ cabinet I burnt every paper, note- 
book and letter that I found there. With a 
mallet from the studio I smashed to pieces 
all the empty bottles, then loading them into 
a coal scuttle, I carried them to the cellar and 
threw them over the red-hot bed of the fur- 
nace. Six times I made the journey, and at 
last, not a vestige remained ol anything which 
might again aid in seeking for the formula 
which Boris had found. Then at last I dared 
call the doctor. He is a good man, and to- 
gether we struggled to keep it from the public. 
Without him I never could have succeeded. 
At last we got the servants paid and sent away 
into the country, where old Rosier keeps them 
quiet with stories of Boris’ and Genevieve’s 
travels in distant lands, from whence they will 
not return for years. We buried Boris in the 
little cemetery of Sevres. The doctor is a 


THE MASH. 


77 

good creature and knows when to pity a man 
who can bear no more. He gave his certifi- 
cate of heart disease and asked no questions 
of me.” 

Then lifting his head from his hands, he 
said, “ Open the letter, Alec ; it is for us 
both.” 

I tore it open. It was Boris’ will dated a 
year before. He left everything to Genevieve, 
and in case of her dying childless, I was to 
take control of the house in the Rue Sainte- 
Cecile, and Jack Scott, the management at 
Ept. On our deaths the property reverted to 
his mother’s family in Russia, with the excep- 
tion of the sculptured marbles executed by him- 
self. These he left to me. 

The page blurred under our eyes, and Jack 
got up and walked to the window. Presently 
he returned and sat down again. I dreaded 
to hear what he was going to say, but he spoke 
with the same simplicity and gentleness. 

“ Genevieve lies before the Madonna in the 
marble room. The Madonna bends tenderly 
above her, and Genevieve smiles back into 
that calm face that never would have been 
except for her.” 

His voice broke, but he grasped my hand, 
saying, “ Courage, Alec.” Next morning he 
left for Ept to fulfil his trust. 


7 8 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


IV. 



HE same evening I took the keys and 
went into the house I had known so 
well. Everything was in order, but 
the silence was terrible. Though I 
went twice to the door of the marble room, I 
could not force myself to enter. It was 
beyond my strength. I went into the smok- 
ing-room and sat down before the spinet. A 
small lace handkerchief lay on the keys, and 
I turned away, choking. It was plain I could 
not stay, so I locked every door, every window, 
and the three front and back gates, and went 
away. Next morning Alcide packed my valise, 
and leaving him in charge of my apartments 
I took the Orient express for Constantinople. 
During the two years that I wandered through 
the East, at first, in our letters, we never men- 
tioned Genevieve and Boris, but gradually 
their names crept in. I recollect particularly 
a passage in one of Jack’s letters replying to 
one of mine. 

“What you tell me of seeing Boris bending 
over you while you lay ill, and feeling his touch 
on your face, and hearing his voice of course 
troubles me. This that you describe must 
have happened a fortnight after he died. I 
say to myself that you were dreaming, that it 
was part of your delirium, but the explanation 
does not satisfy me, nor would it you.” 

Toward the end of the second year a letter 
came from Jack to me in India so unlike any 


THE MASK. 


79 

thing that I had ever known of him that I de- 
cided to return at once to Paris. He wrote, 
“ I am well and sell all my pictures as artists 
do, who have no need of money. I have not a 
care of my own, but I am more restless than 
if I had. I am unable to shake off a strange 
anxiety about you. It is not apprehension, it 
is rather a breathless expectancy, of what, 
God knows ! I can only say it is wearing me 
out. Nights I dream always of you and Boris. 
I can never recall anything afterward, but I 
wake in the morning with my heart beating, 
and all day the excitement increases until I 
fall asleep at night to recall the same experi- 
ence. I am quite exhausted by it, and have 
determined to break up this morbid condition. 
I must see you. Shall I go to Bombay or 
will you come to Paris ? ” 

I telegraphed him to expect me by the next 
steamer. 

When we met I thought he had changed 
very little ; I, he insisted, looked in splendid 
health. It was good to hear his voice again, 
and as we sat and chatted about what life still 
held for us, we felt that it was pleasant to be 
alive in the bright spring weather. 

We stayed in Paris together a week, and 
then I went for a week to Ept with him, but 
first of all we went to the cemetery at Sevres, 
where Boris lay. 

“Shall we place the ‘Fates’ in the little 
grove above him ? ” Jack asked, and I 
answered, 

“ I think only the ‘ Madonna ’ should watch 
over Boris’ grave.” But Jack was none the 
better for my home-coming. The dreams ot 
which he could not retain even the least 
definite outline continued, and he said that at 


8o 


THE KING IN YELLOW . 


times the sense of breathless expectancy was 
suffocating. 

*• You see I do you harm and not good,” I 
said. “Try a change without me.” So he 
started alone for a ramble among the Channel 
Islands and I went back to Paris. I had not 
yet entered Boris’ house,’ now mine, since my 
return, but I knew it must be done. It had 
been kept in order by Jack ; there were servants 
there, so I gave up my own apartment and went 
there to live. Instead of the agitation I had 
feared, I found myself able to paint there 
tranquilly. I visited all the rooms — all but 
one. I could not bring myself to enter the 
marble room where Genevieve lay, and yet I 
felt the longing growing daily to look upon 
her face, to kneel beside her. 

One April afternoon, I lay dreaming in the 
smoking- room, just as I had lain two years 
before, and mechanically I looked among 
the tawny Eastern rugs for the wolf-skin. 
At last I distinguished the pointed ears and 
flat cruel head, and I thought of my dream 
where I saw Genevieve lying beside it. The 
helmets still hung against the threadbare 
tapestry, among them the old Spanish morion 
which I remembered Genevieve had once put 
on when we were amusing ourselves with the 
ancient bits of mail. I turned my eyes to the 
spinet ; every yellow key seemed eloquent of 
her caressing hand, and I rose, drawn by the 
strength of my life’s passion to the sealed door 
of the marble room. The heavy doors swung 
inward under my trembling hands. Sun- 
light poured through the window, tipping with 
gold the wings of Cupid, and lingered like a 
nimbus over the brows of the Madonna. Her 
tender face bent in compassion over a marble 


THE MASK. 


81 


form so exquisitely pure that I knelt and 
signed myself. Genevieve lay in the shadow 
under the Madonna, and yet, through her 
white arms, I saw the pale azure vein, and 
beneath her softly clasped hands the folds of 
her dress were tinged with rose, as if from 
some faint warm light within her breast. 

Bending with a breaking heart I touched 
the marble drapery with my lips, then crept 
back into the silent house. 

A maid came and brought me a letter, and 
T sat down in the little conservatory to read 
it ; but as I was about to break the seal, 
seeing the girl lingering, I asked her what she 
wanted. 

She stammered something about a white 
rabbit that had been caught in the house and 
asked what should be done with it. I told 
her to let it loose in the walled garden behind 
the house and opened my letter. It was from 
Jack, but so incoherent that I thought he must 
have lost his reason. It was nothing but a 
series of prayers to me not to leave the house 
until he could get back ; he could not tell me 
why, there were the dreams, he said — he 
could explain nothing, but he was sure that I 
must not leave the house in the Rue Sainte- 
Cecile. 

As I finished reading I raised my eyes and 
saw the same maid-servant standing in the 
doorway holding a glass dish in which two 
gold fish were swimming : “ Put them back 
into the tank and tell me what you mean by 
interrupting me,” I said. 

With a half suppressed whimper she emptied 
water and fish into an aquarium at the end of 
the conservatory, and turning to me asked my 
permission to leave my service. She said peo- 
6 


g 2 THE KING IN YELLOW. 

pie were playing tricks on her, evidently with 
a design of getting her into trouble ; the 
marble rabbit had been stolen and a live one 
had been brought into the house ; the two 
beautiful marble fish were gone and she had 
just found those common live things flopping 
on the dining-room floor. I reassured her 
and sent her away saying I would look about 
myself. I went into the studio ; there was 
nothing there but my canvasses and some 
casts, except the marble of the Easter Lily. I 
saw it on a table across the room. Then I 
strode angrily over to it. But the flower I 
lifted from the table was fresh and fragile and 
filled the air with perfume. 

Then suddenly I comprehended and sprang 
through the hall-way to the marble room. 
The doors flew open, the sunlight streamed 
into my face and through it, in a heavenly 
glory, the Madonna smiled, as Genevieve 
lifted her flushed face from her marble couch, 
and opened her sleepy eyes. 


THE COURT OF THE DRAGON, 


4 


JN r HE COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


“ Oh Thou who burn’st in heart for those who bum 
In Hell, whose fires thyself shall feed in turn ; 
How long be crying, — * Mercy on them, God ! 
Why, who art thou to teach and He to learn ? ” 



N the Church of St. Barnabg vespers 
were over ; the clergy left the altar ; 
the little choir-boys flocked across 
the chancel and settled in the stalls. 
A Suisse in rich uniform marched down the 
south aisle, sounding his staff at every fourth 
step on the stone pavement ; behind him came 
that eloquent preacher and good man, Mon- 
seigneur C . 

My chair was near the chancel rail. I now 
turned toward the west end of the church. The 
other people between the altar and the pulpit 
turned too. There was a little scraping and 
rustling while the congregation seated itself 
again ; the preacher mounted the pulpit stairs, 
and the organ voluntary ceased. 

I had always found the organ-playing at 
St. Barnab£ highly interesting. Learned and 
scientific it was, too much so for my small 
knowledge, but expressing a vivid if cold in- 
telligence. Moreover, it possessed the French 
quality of taste ; taste reigned supreme, 
self-controlled, dignified and reticent. 

To-day, however, from the first chord I 
had felt a change for the worse, a sinister 
change. During vespers it had been chiefly 


g5 THE KING IN YELLOW. 

the chancel organ which supported the beauti- 
ful choir, but now and again, quite wantonly 
as it seemed, from the west gallery where the 
great organ stands, a heavy hand had struck 
across the church, at the serene peace of those 
clear voices. It was something more than 
harsh and dissonant, and it betrayed no lack 
of skill. As it recurred again and again, it 
set me thinking of what my architect’s books 
say about the custom in early times to conse- 
crate the choir as soon as it was built, and 
that the nave, being finished sometimes half 
a century later, often did not get any blessing 
at all : I wondered idly if that had been the 
case at St. Barnab6, and whether something 
not usually supposed to be at home in a 
Christian church, might have entered unde- 
tected, and taken possession of the west gal- 
lery. I had read of such things happening 
too, but not in works on architecture. 

Then I remembered that St. Barnabg was 
not much more than a hundred years old, 
and smiled at the incongruous association of 
mediaeval superstitions with that cheerful 
little piece of eighteenth century rococo. 

But now vespers were over, and there 
should have followed a few quiet chords, fit to 
accompany meditation, while we waited for 
the sermon. Instead of that, the discord at 
the lower end of the church broke out with 
the departure of the clergy, as if now nothing 
could control it. 

I belong to those children of an older and 
simpler generation, who do not love to seek 
for psychological subtleties in art ; and I 
have ever refused to find in music anything 
more than melody and harmony, but I felt 
that in the labyrinth of sounds now issuing 


IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


8 7 

from that instrument there was something 
being hunted. Up and down the pedals chased 
him, while the manuals blared approval. Poor 
devil ! whoever he was, there seemed small 
hope of escape ! 

My nervous annoyance changed to anger. 
Who was doing this ? How dare he play like 
that in the midst of divine service ? I glanced 
at the people near me : not one appeared to 
be in the least disturbed. The placid brows 
of the kneeling nuns, still turned toward the 
altar, lost none of their devout abstraction, 
under the pale shadow of their white head- 
dress. The fashionable lady beside me was 

looking expectantly at Monseigneur C . 

For all her face betrayed, the organ might have 
been singing an Ave Maria. 

But now, at last, the preacher had made the 
sign of the cross, and commanded silence. I 
turned to him gladly. Thus far I had not 
found the rest I had counted on, when I en- 
tered St. Barnabd that afternoon. 

I was worn out by three nights of physical 
suffering and mental trouble : the last had 
been the worst, and it was an exhausted body, 
and a mind benumbed and yet acutely sensi- 
tive, which I had brought to my favorite 
church for healing. For I had been reading 
“ The King in Yellow.” 

“ The sun ariseth ; they gather themselves 
together and lay them down in their dens.” 

Monseigneur C .delivered his text in a 

calm voice, glancing quietly over the congre- 
gation. My eyes turned, I knew not why, 
toward the lower end of the church. The or- 
ganist was coming from behind his pipes, and 
passing along the gallery on his way out, I saw 
him disappear by a small door that leads to 


88 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


some stairs which descend directly to the 
street. He was a slender man, and his face 
was as white as his coat was black. “ Good 
riddance ! ” I thought, “ with your wicked 
music ! I hope your assistant will play the 
closing voluntary.” 

With a feeling of relief, with a deep, calm 
feeling of relief, I turned back to the mild face 
in the pulpit, and settled myself to listen. 
Here at last, was the ease of mind I longed 
for. 

“ My children,” said the preacher, “ one 
truth the human soul finds hardest of all to 
learn ; that it has nothing to fear. It can 
never be made to see that nothing can really 
harm it.” 

“ Curious doctrine ! ” I thought, “ for a 
Catholic priest. Let us see how he will rec- 
oncile that with the Fathers.” 

«« Nothing can really harm the soul,” he 
went on, in his coolest, clearest tones, “ be- 
cause ” 

But I never heard the rest ; my eye left his 
face, I knew not for what reason, and sought 
the lower end of the church. The same man 
was coming out from behind the organ, and 
was passing along the gallery the sajne way. 
But there had not been time for him to re- 
turn, and if he had returned, I must have 
seen him. I felt a faint chill, and my heart 
sank ; and yet, his going and coming were no 
affair of mine. I looked at him : I could not look 
away from his black figure and his white face. 
When he was exactly opposite to me, he turned 
and sent across the church, straight into my 
eyes, a look of hate, intense and deadly : I 
have never seen any other like it ; would to 
God I might never see it again ! Then he 


IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


89 

disappeared by the same door through which 
I had watched him depart less than sixty 
seconds before. 

I sat and tried to collect my thoughts. My 
first sensation was like that of a very young 
child badly hurt, when it catches its breath 
before crying out. 

To suddenly find myself the object of such 
hatred was exquisitely painful : and this man 
was an utter stranger. Why should he hate 
me so ? Me, whom he had never seen be- 
fore ? For the moment all other sensation 
was merged in this one pang : even fear was 
subordinate to grief, and for that moment I 
never doubted ; but in the next I began to 
reason, and a sense of the incongruous came 
to my aid. 

As I have said, St. Barnab£ is a modern 
church. It is small and well lighted ; one 
sees all over it almost at a glance. The 
organ gallery gets a strong white light from a 
row of long windows in the clere-story, which 
have not even colored glass. 

The pulpit being in the middle of the 
church, it followed that, when I was turned 
toward it, whatever moved at the west end 
could not fail to attract my eye. When the 
organist passed it was no wonder that I saw 
him : I had simply miscalculated the interval 
between his first and his second passing. He 
had come in that last time by the other side- 
door. As for the look which had so upset 
me, there had been no such thing, and I was 
a nervous fool. 

I looked about. This was a likely place to 
harbor supernatural horrors ! That clear-cut, 
reasonable face of Monseigneur C , his col- 

lected manner, and easy, graceful gestures. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


9 0 

were they not just a little discouraging to the 
notion of a gruesome mystery ? I glanced 
above his head, and almost laughed. That 
flyaway lady, supporting one corner of the 
pulpit canopy, which looked like a fringed 
damask table-cloth in a high wind, at the 
first attempt of a basilisk to pose up there in 
the organ loft, she would point her gold 
trumpet at him, and puff him out of existence ! 
I laughed to myself over this conceit, which, 
at the time, I thought very amusing, and sat 
and chaffed myself and everything else, from 
the old harpy outside the railing, who had 
made me pay ten centimes for my chair, be- 
fore she would let me in (she was more like 
a basilisk, I told myself, than was my or- 
ganist with the ansemic complexion ) : from 
that grim old dame, to, yes, alas ! to Mon- 
seigneur C , himself. For all devoutness 

had fled. I had never yet done such a thing in 
my life, but now I felt a desire to mock. 

As for the sermon, I could not hear a word 
of it, for the jingle in my ears of 


“The skirts of St. Paul has reached.” 

Having preached us those six Lent lectures. 
More unctuous than ever he preached : ” 


keeping time to the most fantastic and irrev- 
erent thoughts. 

It was no use to sit there any longer : I 
must get out of doors and shake myself free 
from this hateful mood. I knew the rudeness 
I was committing, but still I rose and left the 
church. 

A spring sun was shining on the rue St. 
Honors, as I ran down the church steps. On 
one corner stood a barrow full of yellow jon- 


IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


91 

quils, pale violets from the Riviera, dark 
Russian violets, and white Roman hyacinths 
in a golden cloud of mimosa. The street 
was full of Sunday pleasure seekers. 1 swung 
my cane and laughed with the rest. Some 
one overtook and passed me. He never 
turned, but there was the same deadly ma- 
lignity in his white profile that there had 
been in his eyes. I watched him as long as I 
could see him. His lithe back expressed the 
same menace ; every step that carried him 
away from me seemed to bear him on some 
errand connected with my destruction. 

I was creeping along, my feet almost re- 
fusing to move. There began to dawn in me 
a sense of responsibility for something long 
forgotten. It began to seem as if I deserved 
that which he threatened : it reached a long 
way back — a long, long way back. It had 
lain dormant all these years : it was there 
though, and presently it would rise and con- 
front me. But I would try to escape ; and I 
stumbled as best I could into the rue de 
Rivoli, across the Place de la Concorde and 
on to the Quai. I looked with sick eyes upon 
the sun, shining through the white foam of 
the fountain, pouring over the backs of the 
dusky bronze river-gods, on the far-away Arc, 
a structure of amethyst mist, on the countless 
vistas of gray stems and bare branches faintly 
green. Then I saw him again coming down 
one of the chestnut alleys of the Cours la Reine. 

I left the river side, plunged blindly across 
to the Champs Elys^es and turned toward the 
Arc. The setting sun was sending its rays 
along the green sward of the Rond-point : in 
the full glow he sat on a bench, children and 
young mothers all about him. He was 


THE KIHG IH YELLOW. 


9 2 

nothing but a Sunday lounger, like the others, 
like myself. I said the words almost aloud, 
and all the while I gazed on the malignant 
hatred of his face. But he was not looking 
at me. I crept past and dragged my leaden 
feet up the Avenue. I knew that every time 
I met him brought him nearer to the accom- 
plishment of his purpose and my fate. And 
still I tried to save myself. 

The last rays of sunset were pouring 
through the great Arc. I passed under it, 
and met him face to face. I had left him far 
down the Champs Elysdes, and yet he came 
in with a stream of people who were return- 
ing from the Bois de Boulogne. He came so 
close that he brushed me. His slender frame 
felt like iron inside its loose black covering. 
He showed no signs of haste, nor of fatigue, 
nor of any human feeling. His whole being 
expressed but one thing : the will, and the 
power to work me evil. 

In anguish I watched him, where he went 
down the broad crowded Avenue, that was all 
flashing with wheels and the trappings of 
horses, and the helmets of the Garde Republi- 
caine. 

He was soon lost to sight ; then I turned 
and fled. Into the Bois, and far out beyond 
it — I know not where I went, but after a long 
while as it seemed to me, night had fallen, 
and I found myself sitting at a table before a 
small cate. I had wandered back into the 
Bois. It was hours now since I had seen him. 
Physical fatigue, and mental suffering had 
left me no more power to think or feel. I was 
tired, so tired ! I longed to hide away in my 
own den. I resolved to go home. But that 
was a long way off. 


IN THE COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


93 

I live in the Court ol the Dragon, a narrow 
passage that leads from the rue de Rennes to 
the rue du Dragon. 

It is an “ Impasse ; ” traversable only for 
foot passengers. Over the entrance on the 
rue de Rennes is a balcony, supported by an 
iron dragon. Within the court tall old houses 
rise on either side, and close the ends that 
give on the two streets. Huge gates, swung 
back during the day into the walls of the deep 
archways, close this court, after midnight, and 
one must enter then by ringing at certain small 
doors on the side. The sunken pavement 
collects unsavory pools. Steep stairways 
pitch down to doors that open on the court. 
The ground floors are occupied by shops of 
second-hand dealers, and by iron workers. 
All day long the place rings with the clink of 
hammers, and the clang of metal bars. 

Unsavory as it is below, there is cheerful- 
ness, and comfort, and hard, honest work 
above. 

Five flights up are the ateliers of architects 
and painters, and the hiding-places of middle- 
aged students like myself who want to live 
alone. When I first came here to live I was 
young, and not alone. 

I had to walk awhile before any convey- 
ance appeared, but at last, when I had almost 
reached the Arc de Triomphe again, an 
empty cab came along and I took it. 

From the Arc to the rue de Rennes is a 
drive of more than half an hour, especially 
when one is conveyed by a tired cab horse 
that has been at the mercy of Sunday fete 
makers. 

There had been time before I passed under 
the Dragon’s wings, to meet my enemy over 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


94 

and over again, but I never saw him once, and 
now refuge was close at hand. 

Before the wide gateway a small mob of 
children were playing. Our concierge and 
his wife walked about among them with their 
black poodle, keeping order ; some couples 
were waltzing on the side-walk. I returned 
their greetings and hurried in. 

All the inhabitants of the court had trooped 
out into the street. The place was quite de- 
serted, lighted by a few lanterns hung high 
up, in which the gas burned dimly. 

My apartment was at the top of a house, 
half way down the court, reached by a stair- 
case that descended almost into the street, 
with only a bit of passage-way intervening. I 
set my foot on the threshold ot the open door, 
the friendly, old ruinous stairs rose before me, 
leading up to rest and shelter. Looking back 
over my right shoulder, I saw him , ten paces 
off. He must have entered the court with me. 

He was coming straight on, neither slowly, 
nor swiftly, but straight on to me. And now 
he was looking at me. For the first time 
since our eyes encountered across the church 
they met now again, and I knew that the 
time had come. 

Retreating backward, down the .ourt, I 
faced him. I meant to escape by the entrance 
on the rue du Dragon. His eyes told me 
that I never should escape. 

It seemed ages while we were going, I re- 
treating, he advancing, down the court in 
perfect silence ; but at last I felt the shadow 
of the archway, and the next step brought me 
within it. I had meant to turn here and 
spring through into the street. But th< 
shadow was not that of an archway ; it wat. 


IN THU COURT OF THE DRAGON. 


95 

that of a vault. The great doors on the rue 
du Dragon were closed. I felt this by the 
blackness which surrounded me, and at the 
same instant I read it in his face. How his face 
gleamed in the darkness, drawing swiftly 
nearer ! The deep vaults, the huge closed 
doors their cold iron clamps were all on his 
side. The thing which he had threatened had 
arrived : it gathered and bore down on me 
from the fathomless shadows ; the point from 
which it would strike was his infernal eyes. 
Hopeless I set my back against the barred 
doors and defied him. 

There was a scraping of chairs on the stone 
floor, and a rustling as the congregation rose. 
I could hear the Suisse’s staff in the south aisle, 
preceding Monseigneur C to the sacristy. 

The kneeling nuns, roused from their devout 
abstraction, made their reverence and went 
away. The fashionable lady, my neighbor, 
rose also, with graceful reserve. As she de- 
parted her glance just flitted over my face in 
disapproval. 

Half dead, or so it seemed to me, yet in- 
tensely alive to every trifle, I sat among the 
leisurely moving crowd, then rose too and 
went toward the door. 

I had slept through the sermon. Had I 
slept through the sermon ? I looked up and 
saw him passing along the gallery to his place. 
Only his side I saw ; the thin bent arm in its 
black covering looked like one of those 
devilish, nameless instruments which lie in 
the disused torture chambers of mediaeval 
castles. 

But I had escaped him, though his eyes had 
said I should not. Had I escaped him ? That 


THE KING IN VELL01K 


96 

which gave him the power over me came back 
out of oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. 
For I knew him now. Death and the awful 
abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long 
ago had sent him — they had changed him for 
every other eye, but not for mine. I had recog- 
nized him almost from the first ; I had never 
doubted what he was come to do ; and now I 
knew that while my body sat safe in the cheer- 
ful little church, he had been hunting my soul 
in the Court of the Dragon. 

1 crept to the door ; the organ broke out 
overhead with a blare. A dazzling light 
filled the church, blotting the altar from my 
eyes. The people faded away, the arches, 
the vaulted roof vanished. I raised my seared 
eyes to the fathomless glare, and I saw the 
black stars hanging in the heavens : and the 
wet winds from the Lake of Hali chilled my 
face. 

And now, far away, over leagues of tossing 
cloud-waves, I saw the moon dripping with 
spray ; and beyond, the towers of Carcosa 
rose behind the moon. 

Death and the awful abode of lost souls, 
whither my weakness long ago had sent him, 
had changed him for every other eye but 
mine. And now I heard his voice , rising, 
swelling, thundering through the flaring light, 
and as I fell, the radiance increasing, increas- 
ing, poured over me in waves of flame. Then 
I sank into the depths, and I heard the King 
in Yellow whispering to my soul: “It is a 
fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living 
God ! ” 


THE YELLOW SIGN 



THE YELLOW SIGN. 


“ Let the red dawn surmise 
What we shall do. 

When this blue starlight dies 
And all is through.” 



£|HERE are so many things which are 
impossible to explain ! Why should 
certain chords in music make me 
think of the brown and golden tints 
of autumn foliage ? Why should the Mass of 
Sainte C£cile send my thoughts wandering 
among caverns whose walls blaze with ragged 
masses of virgin silver ? What was it in the 
roar and turmoil of Broadway at six o’clock 
that flashed before my eyes the picture of 
a still Breton forest where sunlight filtered 
through spring foliage and Silvia bent, half 
curiously, half tenderly, over a small green 
lizard, murmuring : “To think that this also 
is a little ward of God ! ” 

When I first saw the watchman his back 
was toward me. I looked at him indifferently 
until he went into the church. I paid no more 
attention to him than I had to any other man 
who lounged through Washington Square that 
morning, and when I shut my window and 
turned back into my studio I had forgotten 
him. Late in the afternoon, the day being 
warm, I raised the window again and leaned 
out to get a sniff of air. A man was standing 
in the courtyard of the church, and I noticed 

99 


100 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


him again with as little interest as I had that 
morning. I looked across the square to where 
the fountain was playing and then, with my 
mind filled with vague impressions of trees, 
asphalt drives, and the moving groups of 
nursemaids and holiday-makers, I started to 
walk back to my easel. As I turned, my list- 
less glance included the man below in the 
churchyard. His face was toward me now, 
and with a perfectly involuntary movement I 
bent to see it. At the same moment he 
raised his head and looked at me. Instantly 
I thought of a coffin-worm. Whatever it was 
about the man that repelled me I did not 
know, but the impression of a plump white 
grave-worm was so intense and nauseating 
that I must have shown it in my expression, 
for he turned his puffy face away with a move- 
ment which made me think of a disturbed 
grub in a chestnut. 

I went back to my easel and motioned the. 
model to resume her pose. After working 
awhile I was satisfied that I was spoiling 
what I had done as rapidly as possible, and 
I took up a palette knife and scraped the 
color out again. The flesh tones were sallow 
and unhealthy, and I did not understand how 
I could have painted such sickly color into a 
study which before that had glowed with 
healthy tones. 

I looked at Tessie. She had not changed, 
and the clear flush of health dyed her neck 
and cheeks as I frowned. 

“ Is it something I’ve done ? ” she said. 

“ No, — I’ve made a mess of this arm, and 
for the life of me I can’t see how I came to 
paint such mud as that into the canvas,” I 
replied. 


THE YELLOW SIGN 


IOI 


** Don’t I pose well ? ” she insisted. 

“ Of course, perfectly.” 

“ Then it’s not my fault ? ” 

“ No. It’s my own.” 

“ I’m very sorry,” she said. 

I told her she could rest while I applied rag 
and turpentine to the plague spot on my can- 
vas, and she went off to smoke a cigarette 
and look over the illustrations in the Courier 
Frangais . 

I did not know whether it was something in 
the turpentine or a defect in the canvas, but 
the more I scrubbed the more that gangrene 
seemed to spread. I worked like a beaver to 
get it out, and yet the disease appeared to 
creep from limb to limb of the study before 
me. Alarmed I strove to arrest it, but now 
the color on the breast changed and the whole 
figure seemed to absorb the infection as a 
sponge soaks up water. Vigorously I plied 
palette knife, turpentine, and scraper, thinking 
all the time what a stance I should hold with 
Duval who had sold me the canvas ; but soon 
I noticed that it was not the canvas which 
was defective nor yet the colors of Edward. 
“It must be the turpentine,” I thought angrily, 
“or else my eyes have become so blurred and 
confused by the afternoon light that I can’t 
see straight.” I called Tessie, the model. 
She came and leaned over my chair blowing 
rings of smoke into the air. 

“ What have you been doing to it ? ” she 
exclaimed. 

“Nothing,” I growled, “it must be this 
turpentine ! ” 

“ What a horrible color it is now,” she con- 
tinued. “ Do you think my flesh resembles 
green cheese ? ” 


102 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“No, I don’t,” I said angrily, “did you ever 
know me to paint like that before ? ” 

“ No, indeed ! ” 

“Well, then!” 

“ It must be the turpentine, or something,” 
she admitted. 

She slipped on a Japanese robe and walked 
to the window. I scraped and rubbed until I 
was tired and finally picked up my brushes 
and hurled them through the canvas with a 
forcible expression, the tone alone of which 
reached Tessie’s ears. 

Nevertheless she promptly began : “ That’s 
it ! Swear and act silly and ruin your 
brushes ! You have been three weeks on 
that study, and now look ! What’s the good 
of ripping the canvas ? What creatures 
artists are ! ” 

I felt about as much ashamed as I usually 
did after such an outbreak, and I turned the 
ruined canvas to the wall. Tessie helped 
me clean my brushes, and then danced away 
to dress. From the screen she regaled me 
with bits of advice concerning whole or par- 
tial loss of temper, until, thinking, perhaps, I 
had been tormented sufficiently, she came 
out to implore me to button her waist where 
she could not reach it on the shoulder. 

“ Everything went wrong from the time 
you came back from the window and talked 
about that horrid-looking man you saw in the 
churchyard,” she announced. 

“Yes, he probably bewitched the picture,” 
I said, yawning. I looked at my watch. 

“ It’s after six, I know,” said Tessie, adjust- 
ing her hat before the mirror. 

“Yes,” I replied, “I didn’t mean to keep 
you so long.” I leaned, out of the window 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


103 

but recoiled with disgust, for the young man 
with the pasty face stood below in the church- 
yard. Tessie saw my gesture of disapproval 
and leaned from the window. 

“ Is that the man you don’t like ? ” she 
whispered. 

I nodded. 

“ I can’t see his face, but he does look fat 
and soft. Someway or other,” she continued, 
turning to look at me, “ he reminds me of a 
dream, — an awful dream I once had. Or,” 
she mused, looking down at her shapely shoes, 
“ was it a dream after all ? ” 

“ How should I know ? ” I smiled. 

Tessie smiled in reply. 

“You were in it,” she said, “so perhaps 
you might know something about it.” 

“ Tessie ! Tessie ! ” I protested, “ don’t you 
dare flatter by saying that you dream about 
me!” 

“ But I did,” she insisted ; “ shall I tell you 
about it ?’’ 

“Go ahead,” I replied, lighting a cigarette. 

Tessie leaned back on the open window-sill 
and began very seriously. 

“ One night last winter I was lying in bed 
thinking about nothing at all in particular. I 
had been posing for you and I was tired out, 
yet it seemed impossible for me to sleep. I 
heard the bells in the city ring ten, eleven, 
and midnight. I must have fallen asleep 
about midnight because I don’t remember 
hearing the bells after that. It seemed to me 
that I had scarcely closed my eyes when I 
dreamed that something impelled me to go to 
the window. I rose, and raising the sash 
leaned out. Twenty-fifth Street was deserted 
as far as I could see, I began to be afraid ; 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I04 

everything' outside seemed so — so black and 
uncomfortable. Then the sound of wheels in 
the distance came to my ears, and it seemed to 
me as though that was what I must wait for. 
Very slowly the wheels approached, and, 
finally, I could make out a vehicle moving 
along the street. It came nearer and nearer, 
and when it passed beneath my window I saw 
it was a hearse. Then, as I trembled with 
fear, the driver turned and looked straight at 
me. When I awoke I was standing by the 
open window shivering with cold, but the 
black-plumed hearse and the driver were 
gone. I dreamed this dream again in March 
last, and again awoke beside the open win- 
dow. Last night the dream came again. 
You remember how it was raining; when I 
awoke, standing at the open window, my 
night-dress was soaked.” 

“ But where did I come into the dream ? ” 
I asked. 

“You — you were in the coffin; but you 
were not dead.” 

“ In the coffin ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ How did you know ? Could you see me ? ” 

“No ; I only knew you were there.” 

“ Had you been eating Welsh rarebits, 
or lobster salad ? ” I began laughing, but 
the girl interrupted me with a frightened 
cry. 

“ Hello ! What’s up ? ” I said, as she shrank 
into the embrasure by the window. 

“The — the man below in the churchyard ; 
— he drove the hearse.” 

“ Nonsense,” I said, but Tessie’s eyes were 
wide with terror. I went to the window and 
looked out. The man was gone, ** Come, 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


I°S 

Tessie,” I urged, “don’t be foolish. You 
have posed too long ; you are nervous.” 

“ Do you think I could forget that face ? ” 
she murmured. “ Three times I saw the 
hearse pass below my window, and every time 
the driver turned and looked up at me. Oh, 
his face was so white and — and soft ? It 
looked dead — it looked as if it had been dead 
a long time.” 

I induced the girl to sit down and swallow 
a glass of Marsala. Then I sat down beside 
her, and tried to give her some advice. 

“ Look here, Tessie,” I said, “you go to the 
country for a week or two, and you’ll have no 
more dreams about hearses. You pose all 
day, and when night comes your nerves are 
upset. You can’t keep this up. Then again, 
instead of going to bed when your day’s work 
is done, you run off to picnics at Sulzer’s 
Park, or go to the Eldorado or Coney Island, 
and when you come down here next morning 
you are fagged out. There was no real 
hearse. That was a soft-shell crab dream.” 

She smiled faintly. 

“ What about the man in the churchyard ? ” 

“ Oh, he’s only an ordinary unhealthy, every- 
day creature.” 

“As true as my name is Tessie Reardon, I 
swear to you, Mr. Scott, that the face of the 
man below in the churchyard is the face of 
the man who drove the hearse ! ” 

“What of it?” I said. “It’s an honest 
trade.” 

“ Then you think I did see the hearse ? ” 

“ Oh,” I said, diplomatically, “ if you really 
did, it might not be unlikely that the man 
below drove it. There is nothing in that.” 

Tessie rose, unrolled her scented handker- 


105 the KING IN YELLOIV. 

chief, and taking a bit of gum from a knot 
in the hem, placed it in her mouth. Then 
drawing on her gloves she offered me her 
hand, with a frank, “Good-night, Mr. Scott,” 
and walked out. 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


107 


II. 

HE next morning, Thomas, the bell- 
boy, brought me the Herald and a 
bit of news. The church next door 
had been sold. I thanked Heaven 
for it, not that it being a Catholic I had any 
repugnance for the congregation next door, 
but because my nerves were shattered 
by a blatant exhorter, whose every word 
echoed through the aisle of the church as 
if it had been my own rooms, and who 
insisted on his r’s with a nasal persistence 
which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, 
there was a fiend in human shape, an organ- 
ist, who reeled off some of the grand old 
hymns with an interpretation of his own, and 
I longed for the blood of a creature who could 
play the doxology with an amendment of 
minor chords which one hears only in a 
quartet of very young undergraduates. I 
believe the minister was a good man, but 
when he bellowed : “ And the Lorrrd said 

unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war ; the 
Lorrrd is his name. My wrath shall wax hot 
and I will kill you with the sworrrd!’' I 
wondered how many centuries of purgatory it 
would take to atone for such a sin. 

“Who bought the property?” I asked 
Thomas. 



lQ g THE KING IN YELLOW. 

“Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say 
the gent wot owns this ’ere ’Amilton flats was 
lookin’ at it. ’E might be a bildin’ more 
studios.” 

I walked to the window. The young man 
with the unhealthy face stood by the church- 
yard gate, and at the mere sight of him the 
same overwhelming repugnance took posses- 
sion of me, 

“ By the way, Thomas,” I said, “ who is 
that fellow down there ? ” 

Thomas sniffed. “ That there worm, sir ? 
’E’s night-watchman of the church, sir. ’E 
maikes me tired a-sittin’out all night on them 
steps and lookin' at you insultin’ like. I’d a 
punched ’is ’ed, sir — beg pardon, sir ” 

“ Go on, Thomas.” 

“ One night a cornin’ ’ome with ’Arry, the 
other English boy, I sees ’im a sittin’ there on 
them steps. We ’ad Molly and Jen with us, 
sir, the two girls on the tray service, an’ ’e 
looks so insultin’ at us that I up and sez : 
‘Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?’ — beg 
pardon, sir, but that’s ’ow I sez, sir. Then 
’e don’t say nothin’ and I sez : ‘ Come out and 
I’ll punch that puddin’ ’ed.’ Then I hopens 
the gate an’ goes in, but ’e don’t say nothin', 
only looks insultin’ like. Then I ’its ’im one, 
but, ugh ! ’is ’ed was that cold and mushy it 
ud sicken you to touch ’im.” 

“ What did he do then ? ” I asked, curiously. 

“ ’Im ? Nawthin’.” 

“ And you, Thomas ? ” 

The young fellow flushed with embarrass- 
ment and smiled uneasily. 

“ Mr. Scott, sir, I ain’t no coward an’ I can’t 
make it out at all why I run. I was in the 5th 


THE YELLOW SIGH. 


I69 

Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an’ was 
shot by the wells.” 

“You don’t mean to say you ran away ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ; I run.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ That’s just what I want to know, sir. I 
grabbed Molly an' run, an’ the rest was as 
frightened as I.” 

“ But what were they frightened at ? ” 

Thomas refused to answer for a while, but 
now my curiosity was aroused about the re- 
pulsive young man below and I pressed him. 
Three years’ sojourn in America had not only 
modified Thomas’ cockney dialect but had 
given him the American’s fear of ridicule. 

“You won’t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir ?” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“ You will lawf at me, sir ? ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

He hesitated. “ Well, sir, it’s Gawd’s truth 
that when I ’it ’im ’e grabbed me wrists, sir, 
and when I twisted ’is soft, mushy fist one of 
'is fingers come off in me ’and.” 

The utter loathing and horror of Thomas’ 
face must have been reflected in my own for 
he added : 

“ It’s orful, an’ now when I see ’im I just go 
away. 'E maikes me hill.” 

When Thomas had gone I went to the 
window. The man stood beside the church- 
railing with both hands on the gate, but I 
hastily retreated to my easel again, sickened 
and horrified, for I saw that the middle finger 
of his right hand was missing. 

At nine o’clock Tessie appeared and van- 
ished behind the screen with a merry “ good- 
morning, Mr. Scott.” When she had reap- 
peared and taken her pose upon the model- 


IIO 


THE KING IH YELLOW. 


stand I started a new canvas much to her de- 
light. She remained silent as long as I was 
on the drawing, but as soon as the scrape of 
the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative 
she began to chatter. 

“ Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. 
We went to Tony Pastor’s.” 

“ Who are ‘we’ ? ” I demanded. 

“ Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte’s 
model, and Pinkie McCormick — we call her 
Pinkie because she’s got that beautiful red 
hair you artists like so much — and Lizzie 
Burke.” 

I sent a shower of spray from the fix- 
ative over the canvas, and said : “ Well, go 
on.” 

“We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt- 
dancer and — and all the rest. I made a mash.” 

“ Then you have gone back on me, Tessie ? ” 

She laughed and shook her head. 

“ He’s Lizzie Burke’s brother, Ed. He’s a 
perfect gen’l’man.” 

I felt constrained to give her some parental 
advice concerning mashing, which she took 
with a bright smile. 

“ Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,” 
she said, examining her chewing gum, “ but 
Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.” 

Then she related how Ed had come back 
from the stocking mill in Lowell, Massachu- 
setts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and 
what an accomplished young man he was, 
and how he thought nothing of squandering 
half a dollar for ice-cream and oysters to 
celebrate his entry as clerk into the woollen 
department of Macy’s. Before she finished 
I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, 
smiling and chattering like a sparrow. By 


THE YELLOW SIGH. 


Ill 


noon I had the study fairly well rubbed in and 
Tessie came to look at it. 

“ That’s better,” she said. 

I thought so too, and ate my lunch with 
a satisfied feeling that all was going well. 
Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table 
opposite me and we drank our claret from 
the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes 
from the same match. I was very much at- 
tached to Tessie. I had watched her shoot 
up into a slender but exquisitely formed 
woman from a frail, awkward child. She 
had posed for me during the last three years, 
and among all my models she was my favor- 
ite. It would have troubled me very much 
indeed had she become “ tough ” or “ fly,” as 
the phrase goes, but I never noticed any 
deterioration of her manner, and felt at 
heart that she was all right. She and I 
never discussed morals at all, and I had no 
intention of doing so, partly because I had 
none myself, and partly because I knew she 
would do what she liked in spite of me. Still 
I did hope she would steer clear of complica- 
tions, because I wished her well, and then 
also I had a selfish desire to retain the best 
model I had. I knew that mashing, as she 
termed it, had no significance with girls like 
Tessie, and that such things in America did not 
resemble in the least the same things in Paris. 
Yet, having lived with my eyes open, I also 
knew that somebody would take Tessie away 
some day, in one manner or another, and 
though I professed to myself that marriage 
was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this 
case, there would be a priest at the end 
of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I 
listen to high mass, when I sign myself, I 


112 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


feel that everything, including myself, is more 
cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. 
A man who lives as much alone as I do, 
must confess to somebody. Then, again, 
Sylvia was Catholic, and it was reason enough 
for me. But I was speaking of Tessie, 
which is very different. Tessie also was 
Catholic and much more devout than I, 
so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for 
my pretty model until she should fall in love. 
But then I knew that fate alone would decide 
her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that 
fate would keep her away from men like me 
and throw into her path nothing but Ed 
Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her 
sweet face ! 

Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the 
ceiling and tinkling the ice in her tumbler. 

“ Do you know that I also had a dream 
last night ? ” I observed. 

“ Not about that man,” she laughed. 

“ Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only 
much worse.” 

It was foolish and thoughtless of me to 
say this, but you know how little tact the aver- 
age painter has. 

“ I must have fallen asleep about io o’clock,” 
I continued, “ and after awhile I dreamt 
that I awoke. So plainly did I hear the 
midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches, 
and the whistle of steamers from the bay, 
that even now I can scarcely believe I was 
not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box 
which had a glass cover. Dimly I saw 
the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell 
you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined ap- 
peared to lie in a cushioned wagon which jolt- 


THE YELLOW SIGH. 


IJ 3 

ed me over a stony pavement. After a while 
I became impatient and tried to move but the 
box was too narrow. My hands were crossed 
on my breast so I could not raise them to 
help myself. I listened and then tried to call. 
My voice was gone. I could hear the trample 
of the horses attached to the wagon and even 
the breathing of the driver. Then another 
sound broke upon my ears like the raising of 
a window sash. I managed to turn my head 
a little, and found I could look, not only 
through the glass cover of my box, but also 
through the glass panes in the side of the 
covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and 
silent, with neither light nor life about any of 
them excepting one. In that house a window 
was open on the first floor and a figure all in 
white stood looking down into the street. It 
was you.” 

Tessie had turned her face away from me 
and leaned on the table with her elbow. 

“ I could see your face,” I resumed, “ and 
it seemed to me to be very sorrowful. Then 
we passed on and turned into a narrow black 
lane. Presently the horses stopped. I waited 
and waited, closing my eyes with fear and 
impatience, but all was silent as the grave. 
After what seemed to me hours, I began to 
feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody 
was close to me made me unclose my eyes. 
Then I saw the white face of the hearse-driver 
looking at me through the coffin-lid ” 

A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She 
was trembling like a leaf. I saw I had made 
an ass of myself and attempted to repair the 
damage. 

“Why, Tess,” I said, “I only told you this 
to show you what influence your story might 

$ 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


114 

have on another person’s dreams. You don’t 
suppose I really lay in a coffin, do you ? What 
are you trembling for ? Don’t you see that 
your dream and my unreasonable dislike 
for that inoffensive watchman of the church 
simply set my brain working as soon as I fell 
asleep ? ” 

She laid her head between her arms and 
sobbed as if her heart would break. What a 
precious triple donkey I had made of myself ! 
But I was about to break my record. I went 
over and put my arm about her. 

“ Tessie dear, forgive me,” I said ; “ I had 
no business to frighten you with such non- 
sense. You are too sensible a girl, too good 
a Catholic to belfeve in dreams.” 

Her hand tightened on mine and her head 
fell back upon my shoulder, but she still 
trembled and I petted her and comforted her. 

“ Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.” 

Her eyes opened with a slow languid move- 
ment and met mine, but their expression 
was so queer that I hastened to reassure her 
again. 

“ It’s all humbug, Tessie, you surely are not 
afraid that any harm will come to you because 
of that.” 

“No,” she said, but her scarlet lips quiv- 
ered. 

“ Then what’s the matter ? Are you 
afraid ? ” 

“ Yes. Not for myself.” 

“ For me, then ? ” I demanded gayly. 

“For you,” she murmured in a voice al- 
most inaudible, “ I — I care for you.” 

At first I started to laugh, but when I un- 
derstood her, a shock passed through me and 
l sat like one turned to stone. This was the 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


”5 

crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. 
During the moment which elapsed between 
her reply and my answer I thought of a thou- 
sand responses to that innocent confession. I 
could pass it by with a laugh, I could mis- 
understand her and reassure her as to my 
health, I could simply point out that it was 
impossible she could love me. But my reply 
was quicker than my thoughts, and I might 
think and think now when it was too late, for 
I had kissed her on the mouth. 

That evening I took my usual walk in 
Washington Park, pondering over the occur- 
rences of the day. I was thoroughly com- 
mitted. There was no back out now, and I 
stared the future straight in the face. I was 
not good, not even scrupulous, but I had no 
idea of deceiving either myself or Tessie. 
The one passion of my life lay buried in the 
sunlit forests of Brittany. Was it buried for- 
ever ? Hope cried “No!” For three years 
I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and 
for three years I had waited for a footstep on 
my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten ? “No!” 
cried Hope. 

I said that I was not good. Thatistrue, but 
still I was not exactly a comic opera villain. I 
had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what 
invited me of pleasure, deploring and some- 
times bitterly regretting consequences. In 
one thing alone, except my painting, was I 
serious, and that was something which lay 
hidden if not lost in the Breton forests. 

It was too late now for me to regret what 
had occurred during the day. Whatever it 
had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sor- 
row, or the more brutal instinct of gratified 
vanity, it was all the same now, and unless J 


IX 5 THE KING in yellow. 

wished to bruise an innocent heart my path 
lay marked before me. The fire and strength, 
the ' depth of passion of a love which I had 
never even suspected, with all my imagined ex- 
perience in the world, left me no alternative 
but to respond or send her away. Whether 
because I am so cowardly about giving pain to 
others, or whether it was that I have little of 
the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but 
I shrank from disclaiming responsibility for 
that thoughtless kiss, and in fact had no time 
to do so before the gates of her heart opened 
and the flood poured forth. Others who ha- 
bitually do their duty and find a sullen satis- 
faction in making themselves and everybody 
else unhappy, might have withstood it. I did 
not. I dared not. After the storm had 
abated I did tell her that she might better 
have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain gold 
ring, but she would not hear of it, and I 
thought perhaps that as long as she had de- 
cided to love somebody she could not marry, 
it had better be me. I, at least could treat 
her with an intelligent affection, and whenever 
she became tired of her infatuation she could 
go none the worse for it. For I was decided 
on that point although I knew how hard it 
would be. I remembered the usual termina- 
tion of Platonic liaisons and thought how dis- 
gusted I had been whenever I heard of one. 
I knew I was undertaking a great deal for so 
unscrupulous a man as I was, and I dreaded 
the future, but never for one moment did I 
doubt that she was safe with me. Had it 
been anybody but Tessie I should not have 
bothered my head about scruples. For it did 
not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie as I would 
have sacrificed a woman of the world. I 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


n 7 

looked the future squarely in the face and 
saw the several probable' endings to the af- 
fair. She would either tire of the whole thing, 
or become so unhappy that I should have 
either to marry her or go away. If I married 
her we would be unhappy. I with a wife un- 
suited to me, and she with a husband unsuit- 
able for any woman. For my past life could 
scarcely entitle me to marry. If 1 went away 
she might either fall ill, recover, and marry 
some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or 
deliberately go and do something foolish. On 
the other hand if she tired of me, then her 
whole life would be before her with beautiful 
vistas of Eddie Burkes and marriage rings 
and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven 
knows what. As I strolled along through the 
trees by the Washington Arch, I decided that 
she should find a substantial friend in me any- 
way and the future could take care of itself. 
Then I went into the house and put on my 
evening dress for the little faintly perfumed 
note on my dresser said, “ Have a cab at the 
stage door at eleven,” and the note was signed 
“ Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre.” 

I took supper that night, or rather we took 
supper, Miss Carmichel and I, at Solari’s and 
the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross 
on the Memorial Church as I entered Wash- 
ington Square after leaving Edith at the 
Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park 
as I passed among the trees and took the walk 
which leads from the Garibaldi statue to the 
Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed 
the churchyard I saw a figure sitting on the 
stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept 
over me at the sight of the white puffy face, 


tI g THE KING IN YELLOW , . 

and I hastened to pass. Then he said some- 
thing which might have been addressed to me 
or might merely have been a mutter to him- 
self, but a sudden furious anger flamed up 
within me that such a creature should address 
me. For an instant I felt like wheeling about 
and smashing my stick over his head, but I 
walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to 
my apartment. For some time I tossed 
about the bed trying to get the sound of his 
voice out ot my ears, but could not. It filled 
my head, that muttering sound, like thick oily 
smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odor of 
noisome decay. And as I lay and tossed 
about, the voice in my ears seemed more dis- 
tinct, and I began to understand the words he 
had muttered. They came to me slowly as if 
I had forgotten them, and at last I could make 
some sense out of the sounds. It was this : 

“ Have you found the Yellow Sign ? ” 

“ Have you found the Yellow Sign ? ” 

“ Have you found the Yellow Sign ? ” 

I was furious. What did he mean by that ? 
Then with a curse upon him and his I rolled 
over and went to sleep, but when I awoke 
later I looked pale and haggard, for I had 
dreamed the dream of the night before and it 
troubled me more than I cared to think. 

I dressed and went down into my studio. 
Tessie sat by the window, but as I came in 
she rose and put both arms around my neck 
for an innocent kiss. She looked so sweet 
and dainty that I kissed her again and then 
sat down before the easel. 

“ Hello ! Where’s the study I began yester- 
day ? ” I asked. 

Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. 
I began to hunt among the piles of canvases, 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


II 9 

saying-, “ Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; 
we must take advantage of the morning 
light.” 

When at last I gave up the search among 
the other canvases and turned to look around 
the room for the missing study I noticed Tes- 
sie standing by the screen with her clothes 
still on. 

“What’s the matter,” I asked, “don’t you 
feel well ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then hurry.” 

“ Do you want me to pose as — as I have 
always posed t ” 

Then I understood. Here was a new com- 
plication. I had lost, of course, the best nude 
model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. 
Her face was scarlet. Alas ! Alas ! We 
had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden 
and native innocence were dreams of the past 
— I mean for her. 

I suppose she noticed the disappointment 
on my face, for she said : “I will pose if you 
wish. The study is behind the screen here 
where I put it.” 

“No,” I said, “we will begin something 
new ; ” and I went into my wardrobe and picked 
out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed 
with tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and 
Tessie retired to the screen with it enchanted. 
When she came forth again I was astonished. 
Her long black hair was bound above her 
forehead with a circlet of turquoises, and the 
ends curled about her glittering girdle. Her 
feet were encased in the embroidered pointed 
slippers and the skirt of her costume, curi- 
ously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell 
to her ankles. The deep metallic blue vest 


120 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


embroidered with silver and the short Mau« 
resque jacket spangled and sewn with tur- 
quoises became her wonderfully. She came 
up to me and held up her face smiling. I 
slipped my hand into my pocket and drawing 
out a gold chain with across attached, dropped 
it over her head. 

“ It’s yours, Tessie.” 

“ Mine ? ” she faltered. 

“Yours. Now go and pose.” Then with 
a radiant smile she ran behind the screen and 
presently re-appeared with a little box on 
which was written my name. 

“ I had intended to give it to you when I 
went home to-night,” she said, “ but I can’t 
wait now.” 

I opened the box. On the pink cotton in- 
side lay a clasp of black onyx, on which w^s 
inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It 
was neither Arabic nor Chinese, nor as I 
found afterwards did it belong to any human 
script. 

“ It’s all I had to give you for a keepsake," 
she said, timidly. 

I was annoyed, but I told her how much I 
should prize it, and promised to wear it always. 
She fastened it on my coat beneath the 
lapel. 

“ How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such 
a beautiful thing as this,” I said. 

“I did not buy it,” she laughed. 

“ Where did you get it ? ” 

Then she told me how she had found it 
one day while coming from the Aquarium in 
the Battery, how she had advertised it and 
watched the papers, but at last gave up all 
hopes of finding the owner. 

“ That was last winter,” she said, “the very 


the yellow sign. 


12 1 


day I had the first horrid dream about the 
hearse.” 

I remembered my dream of the previous 
night but said nothing, and presently my char- 
coal was flying over a new canvas, andTessie 
stood motionless on the model stand. 


122 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


III. 

HE day following was a disastrous 
one for me. While moving a framed 
canvas from one easel to another my 
foot slipped on the polished floor and 
I fell heavily on both wrists. They 
were so badly sprained that it was useless to 
attempt to hold a brush, and I was obliged to 
wander about the studio, glaring at unfinished 
drawings and sketches until despair seized 
me and I sat down to smoke and twiddle my 
thumbs with rage. The rain blew against the 
windows and rattled on the roof of the church, 
driving me into a nervous fit with its inter- 
minable patter. Tessie sat sewing by the win- 
dow, and every now and then raised her head 
and looked at me with such innocent compas- 
sion that I began to feel ashamed of my irri- 
tation and looked about for something to oc- 
cupy me. I had read all the papers and all 
the books in the library, but for the sake of 
something to do I went to the bookcases and 
shoved them open with my elbow. I knew 
every volume by its color and examined them 
all, passing slowly around the library and 
whistling to keep up my spirits. I was turning 
to go into the dining-room when my eye fell 
upon a book bound in serpent skin, standing in 
a corner of the top shelf of the last bookcase. 
I did not remember it and from the floor could 
not decipher the pale lettering on the back, so 
I went to the smoking-room and called Tessie c 



THE YELLOW SIGN. 


I23 

She came in from the studio and climbed up 
to reach the book. 

“ What is it ? ” I asked. 

“ ‘The King in Yellow,’” 

I was dumfounded. Who had placed it 
there ? How came it in my rooms ? I had 
long ago decided that I should never open that 
book, and nothing on earth could have per- 
suaded me to buy it. Fearful lest curiosity 
might tempt me to open it, I had never even 
looked at it in book-stores. II I ever had had 
any curiosity to read it, the awful tragedy of 
young Castaigne, whom I knew, prevented me 
frem exploring its wicked pages. I had al- 
ways refused to listen to any description of it, 
and indeed, nobody ever ventured to discuss 
the second part aloud, so I had absolutely no 
knowledge of what those leaves might reveal. 
I stared at the poisonous mottled binding as I 
would at a snake. 

“Don’t touch it, Tessie,” I said; “come 
down.” 

Of course my admonition was enough to 
arouse her curiosity, and before I could prevent 
it she took the book and, laughing, danced off 
into the studio with it. I called to her but she 
slipped away with a tormenting smile at my 
helpless hands, and I followed her with some 
impatience. 

“ Tessie ! ” I cried, entering the library, 
“listen, I am serious. Put that book away. 
I do not wish you to open it ! ” The library 
was empty. I went into both drawing-rooms, 
then into the bedrooms, laundry, kitchen, and 
finally returned to the library and began a 
systematic search. She had hidden herself so 
well that it was half an hour later when I dis- 
covered her crouching white and silent by the 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


124 

latticed window in the store-room above. At 
the first glance I saw she had been punished 
for her foolishness. “ The King in Yellow ’’lay 
at her feet, but the book was open at the second 
part. I looked at Tessie and saw it was too 
late. She had opened “ The King in Yellow.” 
Then I took her by the hand and led her 
into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when 
I told her to lie down on the sofa she obeyed 
me without a word. After a while she closed 
her eyes and her breathing became regular 
and deep, but I could not determine whether 
or not she slept. For a long while I sat si- 
lently beside her, but she neither stirred nor 
spoke, and at last I rose and entering the un- 
used store-room took the book in my least 
injured hand. It seemed heavy as lead, but I 
carried it into the studio again, and sitting 
down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it 
and read it through from beginning to end. 

When, faint with the excess of my emotions, 
I dropped the volume and leaned wearily back 
against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and 
looked at me. ****** 

We had been speaking for some time in a 
dull monotonous strain before I realized that 
we were discussing “The King in Yellow.” 
Oh the sin of writing such words, — words 
which are clear as crystal, limpid and musical 
as bubbling springs, words which sparkle and 
glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Med- 
icis ! Oh the wickedness, the hopeless dam- 
nation of a soul who could fascinate and para- 
lyze human creatures with such words, — 
words understood by the ignorant and wise 
alike, words which are more precious than 
jewels, more soothing than music, more awful 
than death ! 


THE YELLOW SIGN 


125 

We talked on, unmindful of the gathering 
shadows, and she was begging me to throw 
away the clasp of black onyx quaintly inlaid 
with what we now knew to be the Yellow Sign. 
I never shall know why I refused, though even 
at this hour, here in my bedroom as I write 
this confession, I should be glad to know what 
it was that prevented me from tearing the Yel- 
low Sign from my breast and casting it into 
the fire. I am sure I wished to do so, and yet 
Tessie pleaded with me in vain. Night fell 
and the hours dragged on, but still we mur- 
mured to each other of the King and the Pal- 
lid Mask, and midnight sounded from the 
misty spires in the fog-wrapped city. We 
spoke of Hastur and of Cassilda, while outside 
the fog rolled against the blank window-panes 
as the cloud waves roll and break on the 
shores of Hali. 

The house was very silent now and not 
a sound came up from the misty streets. 
Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a gray 
blot in the gloom, but her hands were clasped 
in mine and I knew that she knew and read 
my thoughts as I read hers, for we had under- 
stood the mystery of the Hyades and the 
Phantom of Truth was laid. Then as we an- 
swered each other, swiftly, silently, thought 
on thought, the shadows stirred in the gloom 
about us, and far in the distant streets we 
heard a sound. Nearer and nearer it came, 
the dull crunching of wheels, nearer and 
yet nearer, and now, outside before the door 
it ceased, and I dragged myself to the window 
and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate 
below opened and shut, and I crept shaking 
to my door and bolted it, but I knew no bolts, 
no locks, could keep that creature out who 


126 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


was coming for the Yellow Sign. And now I 
heard him moving very softly* along the hall. 
Now he was at the door, and the bolts rotted 
at his touch. Now he had entered. With 
eyes starting from my head I peered into the 
darkness, but when he came into the room I 
did not see him. It was only when I felt him 
envelop me in his cold sott grasp that I cried 
out and struggled with deadly fury, but my 
hands were useless and he tore the onyx clasp 
from my coat and struck me full in the face. 
Then, as I fell, I heard Tessie’s soft cry and 
her spirit fled : and even while falling I longed 
to follow her, for I knew that the King in 
Yellow had opened his tattered mantle and 
there was only God to cry to now. 

I could tell more, but I cannot see what 
help it will be to the world. As for me I am 
past human help or hope. As I lie here, 
writing, careless even whether or not I die 
before I finish, I can see the doctor gathering 
up his powders and phials with a vague gest- 
ure to the good priest beside me, which I un- 
derstand. 

They will be very curious to know the 
tragedy — they of the outside world who write 
books and print millions of newspapers, but I 
shall write no more, and the father confessor 
will seal my last words with the seal of sanc- 
tity when his holy office is done. They of 
the outside world may send their creatures 
into wrecked homes and death-smitten fire- 
sides, and their newspapers will batten on 
blood and tears, but with me their spies must 
halt before the confessional. They know that 
Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They 
know how the people in the house, aroused 
by an infernal scream, rushed into my room 


THE YELLOW SIGN. 


127 

And found one living and two dead, but they 
do not know what I shall tell them now ; 
they do not know that the doctor said as he 
pointed to a horrible decomposed heap on the 
floor — the livid corpse of the watchman from 
the church : “ I have no theory, no explana- 
tion. That man must have been dead for 
months ! ” 

***** 

I think I am dying. I wish the priest 
would 










THE DEMOISELLE D’YS. 


* Mais je croy que je 
Suis descendu on puiz 
Tenebreux onquel disoit 
Haraclytus estre Verity cackle.” 



THE DEMOISELLE D’YS. 


“ There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, 
four which I know not : 

“ The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a 
a rock : the way of a ship in the midst of the sea ; aud the way 
of a man with a maid.” 

I. 

HE utter desolation of the scene be- 
gan to have its effect ; I sat down to 
face the situation and, if possible, re- 
call to mind some landmark which 
might aid me in extricating myself from my 
present position. If I could only find the 
ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one 
could see the island of Groix from the cliffs. 

I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a 
rock lighted a pipe. Then I looked at my 
watch. It was nearly four o’clock. I might 
have wandered far from Kerselec since day- 
break. 

Standing the day before on the cliffs below 
Kerselec with Goulven, looking out over the 
sombre moors among which I had now lost 
my way, these downs had appeared to me 
level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, 
and although I knew how deceptive is dis- 
tance, I could not realize that what from Ker- 
selec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were 
great valleys covered with gorse and heather, 
and what looked like scattered boulders were 
in reality enormous cliffs of granite* 

* 3 * 



THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I3 2 

“ It's a bad place for a stranger,” old Goul- 
ven had said ; “ you’d better take a guide ; ” 
and I had replied, “ I shall not lose myselt.” 
Now I knew that I had lost myself, as I sat 
there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in 
my face. On every side stretched the moor- 
land, covered with flowering gorse and heath 
and granite boulders. There was not a tree 
in sight, much less a house. After a while, I 
picked up the gun, and turning my back on 
the sun tramped on again. 

There was little use in following any of the 
brawling streams which every now and then 
crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into 
the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the 
hollows of the moors. I had followed several, 
but they all led me to swamps or silent little 
ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and 
wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright. I began 
to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder 
in spite of the double pads. The sun sank 
lower and lower, shining level across yellow 
gorse and the moorland pools. 

As I walked my own gigantic shadow led 
me on, seeming to lengthen at every step. 
The gorse scraped against my leggings, 
crackled beneath my feet, showering the 
brown earth with blossoms, and the brake 
bowed and billowed along my path. From 
tufts of heath rabbits scurried away through 
the bracken, and among the swamp grass I 
heard the wild duck’s drowsy quack. Once a 
fox stole across my path, and again, as I 
stooped to drink at a hurrying rill, a heron 
flapped heavily from the reeds beside me. I 
turned to look at the sun. It seemed to touch 
the edges of the plain. When at last I decided 
that it was useless to go on, and that I must 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


x 33 

make up my mind to spend at least one night 
on the moors, I threw myself down thoroughly 
fagged out. The evening sunlight slanted 
warm across my body, but the sea-winds 
began to rise, and I felt a chill strike through 
me from my wet shooting-boots. High over- 
head gulls were wheeling and tossing like 
bits of white paper ; from some distant marsh 
a solitary curlew called. Little by little the 
sun sank into the plain, and the zenith flushed 
with the after-glow. I watched the sky change 
from palest gold to pink and then to smoulder- 
ing fire. Clouds of midges danced above me, 
and high in the calm air a bat dipped and 
soared. My eyelids began to droop. Then 
as I shook off the drowsiness a sudden crash 
among the bracken roused me. I raised my 
eyes. A great bird hung quivering in the air 
above my face. For an instant I stared, in- 
capable of motion ; then something leaped 
past me in the ferns and the bird rose, wheeled, 
and pitched headlong into the brake. 

I was on my feet in an instant peering 
through the gorse. There' came the sound of 
a struggle from a bunch of heather close by, 
and then all was quiet. I stepped forward, 
my gun poised, but when I came to the heather 
the gun fell under my arm again, and I stood 
motionless in silent astonishment. A dead 
hare lay on the ground, and on the hare stood 
a magnificent falcon, one talon buried in the 
creature’s neck, the other planted firmly on 
its limp flank. But what astonished me, was 
not the mere sight of a falcon sitting upon its 
prey. I had seen that more than once. It 
was that the falcon was fitted v/ith a sort of 
leash about both talons, and from the leash 
hung a round bit of metal like a sleigh-bell. 


134 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


The bird turned its fierce yellow eyes on me, 
and then stooped and struck its curved beak 
into the quarry. At the same instant hurried 
steps sounded among the heather, and a girl 
sprang into the covert in front. Without a 
glance at me she walked up to the falcon, and 
passing her gloved hand under its breast, 
raised it from the quarry. Then she deftly 
slipped a small hood over the bird’s head, and 
holding it out on her gauntlet, stooped and 
picked up the hare. 

' She passed a cord about the animal’s legs 
and fastened the end of the thong to her 
girdle. Then she started to retrace her steps 
through the covert. As she passed me I 
raised my cap and she acknowledged my 
presence with a scarcely perceptible inclina- 
tion. I had been so astonished, so lost in 
admiration of the scene before my eyes, that 
it had not occurred to me that here was my 
salvation. But as she moved away I recol- 
lected that unless I wanted to sleep on a windy 
moor that night I had better recover my 
speech without delay. At my first word she 
hesitated, and as I stepped before her I thought 
a look of fear came into her beautiful eyes. But 
as I humbly explained my unpleasant plight, 
her face flushed and she looked at mein wonder. 

“ Surely you did not come from Kerselec ! ” 
she repeated. 

Her sweet voice had no trace of the Breton 
accent nor of any accent which I knew, and 
yet there was something in it I seemed to have 
heard before, something quaint and inde- 
finable, like the theme of an old song. 

I explained that I was an American, unac- 
quainted with FinistSre, shooting there for 
my own amusement. 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


135 

“ An American,” she repeated in the same 
quaint musical tones. “ I have never before 
?een an American.” 

For a moment she stood silent, then look- 
ing at me she said : “ if you should walk all 
night you could not reach Kerselec now, even 
if you had a guide.” 

This was pleasant news. 

“ But,” I began, “ if I could only find a 
peasant’s hut where I might get something to 
eat, and shelter.” 

The falcon on her wrist fluttered and shook 
its head. The girl smoothed its glossy back 
and glanced at me. 

“ Look around,” she said gently. “ Can 
you see the end of these moors ? Look, north, 
south, east, west. Can you see anything but 
moorland and bracken ? ” 

“ No,” I said. 

“ The moor is wild and desolate. It is 
easy to enter, but sometimes they who enter 
never leave it. There are no peasants’ huts 
here.” 

“ Well,” I said “ if you will tell me in which 
direction Kerselec lies, to-morrow it will take 
me no longer to go back than it has to come.” 

She looked at. me again with an expression 
almost like pity. 

“Ah,” she said, “to come is easy and 
takes hours ; to go is different — and may take 
centuries.” 

I stared at her in amazement but decided 
that I had misunderstood her. Then before 
I had time to speak she drew a whistle from 
her belt and sounded it. 

“ Sit down and rest,” she said to me ; “ you 
have come a long distance and are tired.” 

She gathered up her pleated skirts and 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


136 

motioning me to follow picked her dainty way 
through the gorse to a flat rock among the 
ferns. 

“ They will be here directly,” she said, and 
taking a seat at one end of the rock invited 
me to sit down on the other edge. The after 
glow was beginning to fade in the sky and a 
single star twinkled faintly through the rosy 
haze. A long wavering triangle of water-fowl 
drifted southward over our heads and from 
the swamps around plover were calling. 

“ They are very beautiful — these moors,” 
she said quietly. 

“ Beautiful, but cruel to strangers,” I an- 
swered. 

“ Beautiful and cruel,” she repeated dream- 
ily, “ beautiful and cruel.” 

“ Like a woman,” I said stupidly. 

“ Oh,” she cried with a little catch in her 
breath and looked at me. Her dark eyes met 
mine and I thought she seemed angry or 
frightened. 

“ Like a woman,” she repeated under her 
breath, “ how cruel to say so ! ” Then after 
a pause, as though speaking aloud to herself, 
“ how cruel for him to say that.” 

I don’t know what sort of an apology I 
offered lor my inane, though harmless speech, 
but I know that she seemed so troubled about 
it that I began to think I had said something 
very dreadful without knowing it, and remem- 
bered with horror the pitfalls and snares which, 
the French language sets for foreigners. 
While I was trying to imagine what I might 
have said, a sound of voices came across the 
moor and the girl rose to her feet. 

“No,” she said, with a trace of a smile on 
her pale face, “ I will not accept your apolo- 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


*37 

gies, Monsieur, but I must prove you wrong 
and that shall be my revenge. Look. Here 
come Hastur and Raoul.” 

Two men loomed up in the twilight. One 
had a sack across his shoulders and the other 
carried a hoop before him as a waiter carries 
a tray. The hoop was fastened with straps 
to his shoulders and around the edge of the 
circlet sat three hooded falcons fitted with 
tinkling bells. The girl stepped up to the 
falconer, and with a quick turn of her wrist 
transferred her falcon to the hoop where it 
quickly sidled off and nestled among its mates 
who shook their hooded heads and ruffled 
their feathers till the belled jesses tinkled 
again. The other man stepped forward and 
bowing respectfully took up the hare and 
dropped it into the game-sack. 

“These are my piqueurs,” said the girl 
turning to me with a gentle dignity. “ Raoul 
is a good fauconnier and I shall some day make 
him grand veneur. Hastur is incomparable.” 

The two silent men saluted me respectfully. 

“ Did I not tell you, Monsieur, that I should 
prove you wrong?” she continued. “This 
then is my revenge, that you do me the court- 
esy of accepting food and shelter at my own 
house.” 

Before I could answer she spoke to the fal- 
coners who started instantly across the heatn, 
and with a gracious gesture to me she fol- 
lowed. I don’t know whether I made her 
understand how profoundly grateful I felt, but 
she seemed pleased to listen, as we walked 
over the dewy heather. 

“Are you not very tired ? ” she asked. 

I had clean forgotten my fatigue in her pres- 
ence and I told her sq. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


138 

“ Don’t you think your gallantry is a little 
old-fashioned,” she said ; and when I looked 
confused and humbled, she added quietly, 
“ oh, I like it, I like everything old-fashioned, 
and it is delightful to hear you say such pretty 
things.” 

The moorland around us was very still now 
under its ghostly sheet of mist. The plover 
had ceased their calling ; the crickets and all 
the little creatures of the fields were silent as 
we passed, yet it seemed to me as if I could 
hear them beginning again far behind us. 
Well in advance the two tall falconers strode 
across the heather and the faint jingling of the 
hawk’s bells came to our ears in distant mur- 
muring chimes. 

Suddenly a splendid hound dashed out of 
the mist in front, followed by another and an- 
other until half a dozen or more were bound- 
ing and leaping around the girl beside me. 
She caressed and quieted them with her gloved 
hand, speaking to them in quaint terms which 
I remembered to have seen in old French 
manuscripts. 

Then the falcons on the circlet borne by the 
falconer ahead began to beat their wings and 
scream, and from somewhere out of sight the 
notes of a hunting-horn floated across the 
moor. The hounds sprang away before us 
and vanished in the twilight, the lalcons 
flapped and squealed upon their perch and the 
girl taking up the song of the horn began to 
hum. Clear and mellow her voice sounded in 
the night air. 

“ Chasseur, chasseur, chassez encore, 

Quittez Rosette et Jeanneton, 

Tonton, tonton, tontaine, tonton, 

Ou, pour, rabattre, des l’aurore, 

Que les Amours soient de pianton, 

Tonton, tontaine, tonton.” 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


139 

As I listened to her lovely voice a gray mass 
which rapidly grew more distinct loomed up 
in front, and the horn rang out joyously 
through the tumult of the hounds and falcons. 
A torch glimmered at a gate, a light streamed 
through an opening door, and we stepped upon 
a wooden bridge which trembled under our 
feet and rose creaking and straining behind 
us as we passed over the moat and into a 
small stone court, walled on every side. From 
an open doorway a man came and bending in 
salutation presented a cup to the girl beside 
me. She took the cup and touched it with her 
lips, then lowering it turned to me and said 
in a low voice, “ I bid you welcome.” 

At that moment one of the falconers came 
with another cup, but before handing it to me, 
presented it to the girl, who tasted it. The 
falconer made a gesture to receive it, but she 
hesitated a moment and then stepping forward 
offered me the cup with her own hands. I 
felt this to be an act of extraordinary gracious- 
ness, but hardly knew what was expected of 
me, and did not raise it to my lips at once. 
The girl flushed crimson. I saw that I must 
act quickly. 

“ Mademoiselle,” I faltered, “ a stranger 
whom you have saved from dangers he may 
never realize, empties this cup to the gentlest 
and loveliest hostess of France. 

“ In His name,” she murmured crossing 
herself as I drained the cup. Then stepping 
into the doorway she turned to me with a 
pretty gesture and taking my hand in hers, 
led me into the house, saying again and again : 
“ You are very welcome, indeed you are wel- 
come to the Chateau d’Ys.” 


140 


THE KING IN YELLOW \ 


II. 


AWOKE next morning with the 
music of the horn in my ears, and 
leaping out of the ancient bed, went 
to a curtained window where the 
sunlight filtered through little deep-set panes. 
The horn ceased as I looked into the court 
below. 

A man who might have been brother to the 
two falconers of the night before stood in the 
midst of a pack of hounds. A curved horn 
was strapped over his back, and in his hand 
he held a long-lashed whip. The dogs whined 
and yelped, dancing around him in anticipa- 
tion ; there was the stamp of horses too in the 
walled yard. 

“ Mount ! " cried a voice in Breton, and 
with a clatter of hoofs the two falconers, with 
falcons upon their wrists, rode into the court- 
yard among the hounds. Then I heard another 
voice which sent the blood throbbing through 
my heart : “ Piriou Louis, hunt the hounds 

well and spare neither spur nor whip. Thou 
Raoul and thou Gaston, see that the epervier 
does not prove himself niais , and if it be best 
in your judgment, /hz’A?.? courtoisie a I'oiseau. 
Jardiner un oiseau like the mue there on 
Hastur’s wrist is not difficult, but thou, Raoul 
mayest not find it so simple to govern that 
hagard. Twice last week he foamed au vif 



THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


141 

and lost the beccade although he is used to the 
leurre. The bird acts like a stupid branchier. 
Paitre un hagard n'est pas si facile.” 

Was I dreaming ? The old language of 
falconry which I had read in yellow manu- 
scripts — the old forgotten F rench of the middle 
ages was sounding in my ears while the hounds 
bayed and the hawk’s bells tinkled accompani- 
ment to the stamping horses. She spoke again 
in the sweet forgotten language : 

“ If you would rather attach the longe and 
leave thy hagard au bloc , Raoul, I shall say 
nothing ; for it were a prity to spoil so fair a 
day’s sport with an ill-trained sors. Essimer 
abaisser, — it is possibly the best way. fa lui 
donnera des reins . I was perhaps hasty with 
the bird. It takes time to pass d la filiere 
and the exercises d'escap.” 

Then the falconer Raoul bowed in his stir- 
rups and replied : “ If it be the pleasure of 

Mademoiselle, I shall keep the hawk.” 

“ It is my wish,” she answered. “ Falconry 
I know, but you have yet to give me many a 
lesson in Autourserie, my poor Raoul. Sieur 
Piriou Louis, mount ! ” 

The huntsman sprang into an archway and 
in an instant returned, mounted upon a strong 
black horse, followed by a piqueur also 
mounted. 

“ Ah ! ” she cried joyously, « speed Glemarec 
Ren6 ! speed ! speed all ! Sound thy horn 
Sieur Piriou ! ” 

The silvery music of the hunting-horn filled 
the courtyard, the hounds sprang through 
the gateway and galloping hoof-beats plunged 
out of the paved court ; loud on the draw- 
bridge, suddenly muffled, then lost in the 
heather and bracken of the moors. Distant 


'i HE KING IN YELLOW . 


I42 

and more distant sounded the horn, until it 
became so faint that the sudden carol of a 
soaring lark drowned it in my ears. I heard 
the voice below responding to some call from 
within the house. 

“I do not regret the chase, I will go 
another time. Courtesy to the stranger, Pe- 
lagie, remember ! ” 

And a feeble voice came quavering from 
within the house, “ Courtoisie .” 

I stripped, and rubbed myself from head to 
foot in the huge earthen basin ot icy water 
which stood upon the stone floor at the foot 
of my bed. Then I looked about for my 
clothes. They were gone, but on a settle near 
the door lay a heap of garments which I 
inspected with astonishment. As my clothes 
had vanished I was compelled to attire myself 
in the costume which had evidently been 
placed there for me to wear while my own 
clothes dried. Everything was there, cap, 
shoes, and hunting doublet of silvery gray 
homespun ; but the close-fitting costume and 
seamless shoes belonged to another century, 
and I remembered the strange costumes of the 
three falconers in the courtyard. I was sure 
that it was not the modern dress of any por- 
tion of F ranee or Brittany ; but not until I was 
dressed and stood before a mirror between the 
windows did I realize that I was clothed much 
more like a young huntsman of the middle 
ages than like a Breton of that day. I hesi- 
tated and picked up the cap. Should I go 
down and present myself in that strange 
guise ? There seemed to be no help for it, 
my own clothes were gone and there was no 
bell in the ancient chamber to call a servant, 
so I contented myself with removing a short 


THE DEMOISELLE D’VS. 


*43 

hawk’s feather from the cap, and opening the 
door went downstairs. 

By the fireplace in the large room at the 
foot of the stairs an old Breton woman sat 
spinning with a distaff. She looked up at me 
when I appeared, and, smiling frankly, wished 
me health in the Breton language, to which I 
laughingly replied in French. At the same 
moment my hostess appeared and returned 
my salutation with a grace and dignity that 
sent a thrill to my heart. Her lovely head 
with its dark curly hair was crowned with a 
head-dress which set all doubts as to the epoch 
of my own costume at rest. Her slender 
figure was exquisitely set off in the homespun 
hunting-gown edged with silver, and on her 
guantlet-covered wrist she bore one of her 
petted hawks. With perfect simplicity she 
took my hand and led me into the garden 
in the court, and seating herself before a table 
invited me very sweetly to sit beside her. 
Then she asked me in her soft quaint accent 
how I had passed the night and whether I was 
very much inconvenienced by wearing the 
clothes which old Pelagie had put there for 
me while I slept. I looked at my own clothes 
and shoes, drying in the sun by the garden- 
wall, and hated them. What horrors they were 
compared with the graceful costume which I 
now wore ! I told her this laughing, but she 
agreed with me very seriously. 

“ We will throw them away,” she said in a 
quiet voice. In my astonishment I attempted 
to explain that I not only could not think of 
accepting clothes from anybody, although for 
all I knew it might be the custom of hos- 
pitality in that part of the country, but that I 


144 


THE KING IN YELLOW ’. 


should cut an impossible figure if I returned 
to France clothed as I was then. 

She laughed and tossed her pretty head, 
saying something in old French which I did 
not understand, and then Pelagie trotted out 
with a tray on which stood two bowls of milk, 
a loaf of white bread, fruit, a platter of honey- 
comb, and a flagon of deep red wine. “ You 
see I have not yet broken my fast because I 
wished you to eat with me. But I am very 
hungry,” she smiled. 

“ I would rather die than forget one word of 
what you have said ! " I blurted out while my 
cheeks burned, “ She will think me mad,” 
I added to myself, but she turned to me with 
sparkling eyes. 

“ Ah ! ” she murmured. “ Then Monsieur 
knows all that there is of chivalry ” 

She crossed herself and broke bread — I sat 
and watched her white hands, not daring to 
raise my eyes to hers. 

“ Will you not eat,” she asked ; “ why do 
you look so troubled ? ” 

Ah, why ? I knew it now. I knew I would 
give my life to touch with my lips those rosy 
palms — I understood now that from the mo- 
ment when I looked into her dark eyes there 
on the moor last night I had loved her. My 
great and sudden passion held me speechless. 

“ Are you ill at ease ? ” she asked again. 

Then like a man who pronounces his own 
doom I answered in a low voice : “ Yes, I am 
ill at ease for love of you.” And as she did 
not stir nor answer, the same power moved 
my lips in spite of me and I said, “ I, who am 
unworthy of the lightest of your thoughts, I 
who abuse hospitality and repay your gentle 
courtesy with bold presumption, I love you.” 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


M5 

She leaned her head upon her hands, and 
answered softly, “I love you. Your words 
are very dear to me. I love you.” 

“ Then I shall win you.” 

“ Win me,” she replied. 

But all the time I had been sitting silent, my 
face turned toward her. She also silent, her 
sweet face resting on her upturned palm, sat 
facing me, and as her eyes looked into mine, 
I knew that neither she nor 1 had spoken 
human speech ; but I knew that her soul had 
answered mine, and I drew myself up feeling 
youth and joyous love coursing through every 
vein. She, with a bright color in her lovely 
face, seemed as one awakened from a dream, 
and her eyes sought mine with a questioning 
glance which made me tremble with delight. 
We broke our fast, speaking of ourselves. I 
told her my name and she told me hers, the 
Pemoiselle Jeanne d’Ys. 

She spoke of her father and mother’s death, 
and how the nineteen of her years had been 
passed in the little fortified farm alone with 
her nurse Pelagie. Glemarec Rene the 
piqueur, and the four falconers, Raoul, 
Gaston, Hastur, and the Sieur Piriou Louis, 
who had served her father. She had never 
been outside the moorland — never even had 
seen a human soul before, except the falcon- 
ers and Pelagie. She did not know how she 
had heard of Kerselec ; perhaps the falconers 
had spoken of it. .She knew the legends of 
Loup Garou and Jeanne la Flamme from her 
nurse Pelagie. She embroidered and spun 
flax. Her hawks and hounds were her only 
distraction. When she had met me there on 
the moor she had been so frightened that she 
almost dropped at the sound of my voice, 
io 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


146 

She had, it was true, seen ships at sea from 
the cliffs, but as far as the eye could reach the 
moors over which she galloped were desti- 
tute of any sign of human life. There was a 
legend which old Pelagie told, how anybody 
once lost in the unexplored moorland might 
never return, because the moors were en- 
chanted. She did not know whether it was true, 
she never had thought about it until she met me. 
She did not know whether the falconers had 
even been outside or whether they could go 
if they would. The books in the house which 
Pelagie the nurse had taught her to read 
were hundreds of years old. 

All this she told me with a sweet serious- 
ness seldom seen in any one but children. 
My own name she found easy to pronounce 
and insisted, because my first name was Philip, 
I must have French blood in me. She did 
not seem curious to learn anything about the 
outside world, and I thought perhaps she con- 
sidered it had forfeited her interest and respect 
from the stories of her nurse. 

We were still sitting at the table and she 
was throwing grapes to the small field birds 
which came fearlessly to our very feet. 

I began to speak in a vague w r ay of going, 
but she would not hear of it, and before I knew 
it I had promised to stay a week and hunt 
with hawk and hound in their company. I 
also obtained permission to come again from 
Kerselec and visit her after my return. 

“Why,” she said innocently, “I do not 
know what I should do if you never came 
back ; ” and I, knowing that I had no right to 
awaken her with the sudden shock which the 
avowal of my own love would bring to her, 
sat silent, hardly daring: to breathe. 


THE DEMOISELLE D'YS. 


*47 

*« You will come very often ? ” she asked. 

"Very often,” I said. 

“ Every day ? ” 

“ Every day.” 

“Oh,” she sighed, “lam very happy— 
come and see my hawks.” 

She rose and took my hand again with a 
childlike innocence of possession, and we 
walked through the garden and fruit trees to 
a grassy lawn which was bordered by a brook. 
Over the lawn were scattered fifteen or twenty 
stumps of trees — partially imbedded in the 
grass — and upon all of these except two sat 
falcons. They were attached to the stumps 
by thongs which were in turn fastened with 
steel rivets to their legs just above the talons. 
A little stream of pure spring water flowed 
in a winding course within easy distance of 
each perch. 

The birds set up a clamor when the girl ap- 
peared, but she went from one to another 
caressing some, taking others for an instant 
upon her wrist, or stooping to adjust their 
jesses. 

“ Are they not pretty ? ” she said. “ See, 
here is a falcon-gentil.” We call it ‘ ignoble,’ 
because it takes the quarry in direct chase. 
This is a blue falcon. In falconry we call it 
* noble ’ because it rises over the quarry, and 
wheeling, drops upon it from above. This 
white bird is a gerfalcon from the north. It is 
also ‘ noble ! ’ Here is a merlin, and this 
tiercelet is a falcon-heroner.” 

I asked her how she had learned the old 
language of falconry. She did not remember, 
but thought her father must have taught it to 
her when she was very young. 

Then she led me away and showed me the 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


148 

young falcons still in the nest. “They are 
termed niais in falconry,” she explained. “ A 
branchier is the young bird which is just able 
to leave the nest and hop from branch to 
branch. A young bird which has not yet 
moulted is called a sors, and a mue is a hawk 
which has moulted in captivity. When we 
catch a wild falcon which has changed its 
plumage we term it a hagard. Raoul first 
taught me to dress a falcon. Shall I teach 
you how it is done ? ” 

She seated herself on the bank of the stream 
among the falcons and I threw myself at her 
feet to listen. 

Then the Demoiselle d’Ys held up one rosy- 
tipped finger and began very gravely, 

First one must catch the falcon.” 

“ I am caught,” I answered. 

She laughed very prettily and told me my 
dressage would perhaps be difficult as I was 
noble. 

“ I am already tamed,” I replied ; “jessed 
and belled.” 

She laughed, delighted. “ Oh, my brave 
falcon ; then you will return at my call ? ” 

“ I am yours,” I answered gravely. 

She sat silent for a moment. Then the 
color heightened in her cheeks and she held 
up her finger again saying, “ Listen ; I wish to 
speak of falconry ” 

“ I listen, Countess Jeanne d’Ys.” 

But again she fell into the reverie, and her 
eyes seemed fixed on something beyond the 
summer clouds. 

“ Philip,” she said at last. 

“Jeanne,” I whispered. 

“ That is all, — that is what I wished,” sh« 
sighed, — “Philip and Jeanne*’ 1 


THE DEMOISELLE D’YS 


I49 

She held her hand toward me and I touched 
it with my lips. 

“ Win me,” she said, but this time it was 
the body and soul which spoke in unison. 

After a while she began again : “ Let us 
speak of falconry.” 

“ Begin,” I replied ; “ we have caught the 
falcon.” 

Then Jeanne d’Ys took my hand in both of 
hers and told me how with infinite patience 
the young falcon was taught to perch upon 
the wrist, how little by little it became used 
to the belled jesses and the chaperon d cor- 
nette. 

“ They must first have a good appetite,” 
she said ; “ then little by little I reduce their 
nourishment which in falconry we call pdt. 
When after many nights passed au bloc as 
these birds are now, I prevail upon the hagard 
to stay quietly on the wrist, then the bird is 
ready to be taught to come for its food. I 
fix the pdt to the end of a thong or leurre , 
and teach the bird to come to me as soon as I 
begin to whirl the cord in circles about my 
head. At first I drop the pdt when the falcon 
comes, and he eats the food on the ground. 
After a little he will learn to seize the leurre 
in motion as I whirl it around my head, or 
drag it over the ground. After this it is easy 
to teach the falcon to strike at game, always 
remembering to 'faire courtoisie d Voiseau ,’ 
that is, to allow the bird to taste the quarry.” 

A squeal from one of the falcons inter- 
rupted her, and she arose to adjust the longe 
which had become whipped about the bloc, but 
the bird still flapped its wings and screamed. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she said ; “ Philip, 

tan you see ? " 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


* 5 ° 

I looked around and at first saw nothing to 
cause the commotion which was now height- 
ened by the screams and flapping of all the 
birds. Then my eye fell upon the flat rock 
beside the stream from which the girl had 
risen. A gray serpent was moving slowly 
across the surface of the bowlder, and the eyes 
in its flat triangular head sparkled like jet. 

“ A couleuvre,” she said quietly. 

“ It is harmless, is it not ? ” I asked. 

She pointed to the black V-shaped figure on 
the neck. 

“ It is certain death,” she said ; “ it is a 
viper.” 

We watched the reptile moving slowly over 
the smooth rock to where the sunlight fell in 
a broad warm patch. 

I started forward to examine it, but she 
clung to my arm crying, “ Don’t, Philip, I am 
afraid.” 

“ For me ? ” 

“For you, Philip, — I love you.” 

Then I took her in my arms and kissed her 
on the lips, but all I could say was : “Jeanne, 
Jeanne, Jeanne.” And as she lay trembling 
on my breast, something struck my foot in the 
grassy below, but I did not heed it. Then 
again something struck my ankle, and a sharp 
pain shot through me. I looked into the sweet 
face of Jeanne d’Ys and kissed her, and with 
all my strength lifted her in my arms and 
flung her from me. Then bending, I tore the 
viper from my ankle and set my heel upon its 
head. I remember feeling weak and numb, — 
I remember falling to the ground. Through 
my slowly glazing eyes I saw Jeanne’s white 
face bending close to mine, and when the 
light in my eyes went out I still felt her arm? 


THE DEMOISELLE D’YS. 


* 5 * 

about my neck, and her soft cheek against my 
drawn lips. 

• • • • • 

When I opened my eyes, I looked around in 
terror. Jeanne was gone. I saw the stream 
and the flat rock ; I saw the crushed viper in 
the grass beside me, but the hawks and blocs 
had disappeared, I sprang to my feet. The 
garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge and the 
walled court were gone. I stared stupidly at 
a heap of crumbling ruins, ivy-covered and 
gray, through which great trees had pushed 
their way. I crept forward, dragging my 
numbed foot, and as I moved, a falcon sailed 
from the tree-tops among the ruins, and soar- 
ing, mounting in narrowing circles, faded and 
vanished in the clouds above. 

" Jeanne, Jeanne,” I cried, but my voice 
died on my lips, and I fell on my knees among 
the weeds. And as God willed it, I, not 
knowing, had fallen kneeling before a crum- 
bling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of 
Sorrows. I saw the sad face of the Virgin 
wrought in the cold stone. I saw the cross 
and thorns at her feet, and beneath it I read : 

"Pray for the soul of the 
Demoiselle Jeanne d’Ys, 
who DIED 

IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF 

Philip, a Stranger. 

A.D. 1573." 

But upon the icy slab lay a woman’s glove 
still warm and fragrant. 











I 


THE PROPHETS’ PARADISE. 

“ If but the Vine and Love Abjuring Band 
Are in the Prophets’ Pardaise to stand, 

Alack, I doubt the Prophets’ Paradise, 

Were empty as the hollow of one’s hand.” 















































THE PROPHETS* PARADISE, 


XLbe StuMo. 

smiled, saying : “ Seek her through- 
>ut the world. 

I said, “ Why tell me of the 
vorld ? My world is here, be- 
tween these walls and the sheet of glass 
above ; here among gilded flagons and dull 
jewelled arms, tarnished frames and can- 
vasses, black chests and high backed chairs, 
quaintly carved and stained in blue and gold. 

“ For whom do you wait ? ” he said, and I 
answered, “ When she comes I shall know 
her.” 

On my hearth a tongue of flame whispered 
secrets to the whitening ashes. In the street 
below I heard footsteps, a voice, and a song. 

“For whom then do you wait?” he said, 
and I answered, “ I shall know her.” 

Footsteps, a voice, and a song in the street 
below, and I knew the song but neither the 
steps nor the voice. 

“ Fool ! ” he cried, “ the song is the same, 
the voice and steps have but changed with 
years ! ” 

On the hearth a tongue of flame whispered 
above the whitening ashes : “ Wait no more ; 
they have passed, the steps and the voice in 
the street below.” 



THE KINO IN YELLOW. 


I5 6 

Then he smiled, saying: “For whom do 
you wait ? Seek her throughout the world ! ” 

I answered, “ My world is here between these 
walls and the sheet of glass above ; here 
among gilded flagons and dull jewelled 
arms, tarnished frames and canvasses, black 
chests and high-backed chairs, quaintly carved 
and stained in blue and gold.” 


THE PROPHETS * PARADISE. 


1 57 


Gbe ipbantom* 

The Phantom of the Past would go no fur- 
ther. 

“ If it is true,” she sighed, “ that you find 
in me a friend, let us turn back together, 
You will forget, here, under the summer sky.” 

I held her close, pleading, caressing ; I 
seized her, white with anger, but she resisted. 

“ If it is true,” she sighed, “ that you find 
in me a friend, let us turn back together.” 

The Phantom of the Past would go no fur- 
ther. 


THE KING IN YELLOW, 


158 


XLbc Sacrifice. 

1 went into a field of flowers, whose petals 
are whiter than snow and whose hearts are 
pure gold. 

Far afield a woman cried, “ I have killed 
him I loved ! ” and from a jar she poured 
blood upon the flowers whose petals are 
whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure 
gold. 

Far afield I followed, and on the jar I read 
a thousand names, while from within the fresh 
blood bubbled to the brim. 

“ I have killed him I loved ! ” she cried. 
“The world’s athirst; now let it drink!” 
She passed, and far afield I watched her pour- 
ing blood upon the flowers whose petals are 
whiter than snow and whose hearts are pure 
gold. 


THE PROPHETS ’ PARADISE. 


*59 


2>estfn£* 

I CAME to the bridge which few may pass. 

“ Pass ! ” cried the keeper, but I laughed, 
saying, “ There is time ; ” and he smiled and 
shut the gates. 

To the bridge which few may pass came 
young an old. All were refused. Idly I stood 
and counted them, until, wearied of their 
noise and lamentations, I came again to the 
bridge which few may pass. 

Those in the throng about the gates shrieked 
out, “ He comes too late ! ” But I laughed 
saying, “There is time.” 

“ Pass ! ” cried the keeper as I entered ; then 
smiled and shut the gates. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


160 


Ebe Gbrong. 

There, where the throng was thickest in the 
street, I stood with Pierrot. All eyes were 
turned on me. 

“ What are they laughing at ? ” I asked, 
but he grinned, dusting the chalk from my 
black cloak. “ I cannot see ; it must be some- 
thing droll, perhaps an honest thief ! ” 

All eyes were turned on me. 

“ He has robbed you of your purse ! ” they 
laughed. 

“ My purse ! ” I cried ; “ Pierrot — help ! it 
is a thief ! ” 

They laughed : “ He has robbed you of your 
purse ! ” 

Then Truth stepped out holding a mirror. 
“ If he is an honest thief,” cried Truth, “ Pierrot 
shall find him with this mirror ! ” but he only 
grinned dusting the chalk from my black 
cloak. 

“You see,” he said, “Truth is an honest 
thief, she brings you back your mirror.” 

All eyes were turned on me. 

“ Arrest Truth ! ” I cried, forgetting it was 
not a mirror but a purse I lost, standing with 
Pierrot, there, where the throng was thickest 
in the street. 


THE PROPHETS' PARADISE. 


161 


XTbe Setter. 

'* WAS she fair ? ” I asked, but he only 
chuckled, listening to the bells jingling on his 
cap. 

“ Stabbed,” he tittered ; “think of the long 
journey, the days of peril, the dreadful nights ! 
Think how he wandered, for her sake, year 
after year, through hostile lands, yearning for 
kith and kin, yearning for her ! ” 

“Stabbed,” he tittered, listening to the bells 
jingling on his cap. 

“Was she fair?” I asked, but he only 
snarled, muttering to the bells jingling on his 
cap. 

“ She kissed him at the gate,” he tittered, 
“ but in the hall his brother’s welcome touched 
his heart.” 

“ Was she fair ? ” I asked. 

“ Stabbed, ” he chuckled ; “ think of the 
long journey, the days of peril, the dreadful 
nights ! Think how he wandered, for her 
sake, year after year, through hostile lands, 
yearning for kith and kin, yearning for her ! 

“ She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall 
his brother’s welcome touched his heart.” 

“ Was she fair ? ” I asked ; but he only 
snarled, listening to the bells jingling in his 
cap. 


II 


162 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


tTbe (Sr een IRoom. 

The Clown turned his powdered face to the 
mirror. 

“ If to be fair is to be beautiful,” he said, 
who can compare with me in my white 
mask ? ” 

“ Who can compare with him in his white 
mask ? ” I asked of Death beside me. 

“ Who can compare with me ? ” said Death, 
“ for I am paler still.” 

“ You are very beautiful,” sighed theClown, 
turning his powdered face from the mirror. 


THE PROPHETS' PARADISE. 


I63 


tr be Xo vc treat* 

M If it is true that you love,” said Love, 
“ then wait no longer. Give her these jewels 
which would dishonor her and so dishonor 
you in loving one dishonored. If it is true 
that you love,” said Love, “ then wait no 
longer.” 

I took the jewels and went to her, but she 
trod upon them, sobbing : “ Teach me to wait, 
—I love you ! ” 

“ Then wait, if it is true,” said Love. 


# 


THE STREET OF THE FOUR 
WINDS. 


“ Ferme tes yeux k demi, 

Croise tes bras sur ton sein, 

Et de ton coeur endormi 
Chasse k jamais tout dessein. 

* * # * 

“ Je chante la nature, 

Les doiles du soir, les larmes du matin, 

Les couchers de soleil & l’horizon lointain, 

Le del qui parle au cceur d’existence future l ” 





THE STREET OF THE FOUR 
WINDS. 


i. 

HE animal paused on the threshold, 
interrogative, alert, ready for flight 
if necessary. Severn laid down his 
palette, and held out a hand ol wel- 
come. The cat remained motionless, her 
yellow eyes fastened upon Severn. 

“ Puss,” he said, in his low, pleasant voice, 
“ come in.” 

The tip of her thin tail twitched uncertainly. 

“Come in,” he said again. 

Apparently she found his voice reassuring, 
for she slowly settled upon all fours, her eyes 
still fastened upon him, her tail tucked under 
her gaunt flanks. 

He rose from his easel smiling. She eyed 
him quietly, and when he walked toward her 
she watched him bend above her without a 
wince ; her eyes followed his hand until it 
touched her head. Then she uttered a ragged 
mew. 

It had long been Severn’s custom to eon- 
verse with animals, probably because he lived 
so much alone ; and now he said “What’s 
the matter, puss ? ” 

Her timid eyes sought his. 

“ I understand,” he said gently, “you shall 
have it at once.” 

Then moving quietly about he busied him- 
self with the duties of a host, rinsed a saucer, 

i6 7 



j 58 the king in yellow. 

filled it with the rest of the milk from the 
bottle on the window-sill, and kneeling down, 
crumbled a roll into the hollow of his hand. 

The creature rose and crept toward the 
saucer. 

With the handle of a palette knife he stirred 
the crumbs and milk together and stepped 
back as she thrust her nose into the mess. 
He watched her in silence. From time to 
time the saucer klinked upon the tiled floor as 
she reached for a morsel on the rim ; and at 
last the bread was all gone, and her purple 
tongue travelled over every unlicked spot 
until the saucer shone like polished marble. 
Then she sat up, and coolly turning her back 
to him, began her ablutions. 

“ Keep it up,” said Severn much interested, 
“ you need it.” 

She flattened one ear but neither turned nor 
interrupted her toilet. As the grime was 
slowly removed Severn observed that nature 
had intended her for a white cat. Her fur 
had disappeared in patches, from disease or 
the chances of war, her tail was bony and her 
spine sharp. But what charms she had were 
becoming apparent under vigorous licking, 
and he waited until she had finished before 
re-opening the conversation. When at last 
she closed her eyes and folded her forepaws 
under her breast, he began again very gently : 
“ Puss, tell me your troubles.” 

At the sound of his voice she broke into a 
harsh rumbling which he recognized as an 
attempt to purr. He bent over to rub her 
cheek and she mewed again, an amiable in- 
quiring little mew, to which he replied, “Cer- 
tainly, you are greatly improved, and when you 
recpver your plumage you will be a gorgeous 


THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS, jfoj 

bird.” Much flattered she stood up and 
marched around and around his legs, push- 
ing her head between them and making 
pleased remarks, to which he responded with 
grave politeness. 

“ Now what sent you here,” he said, “here 
into the Street of the Four Winds, and up 
five flights to the very door where you would 
be welcome ? What was it that prevented 
your meditated flight when I turned from my 
canvas to encounter your yellow eyes ? Are 
you a Latin Quarter cat as I am a Latin 
Quarter man ? And why do you wear a rose- 
colored flowered garter buckled about your 
neck ? The cat had climbed into his lap and 
now sat purring as he passed his hand over 
her thin coat. 

“ Excuse me,” he continued in lazy sooth- 
ing tones, harmonizing with her purring, 
“ if I seem indelicate, but I cannot help 
musing on this rose-colored garter, flowered 
so quaintly and fastened with a silver clasp. 
For the clasp is silver ; I can see the mint 
mark on the edge, as is prescribed by the 
law of the French Republic. Now, why is 
this garter woven of rose silk and deli- 
cately embroidered, — why is this silken gar- 
ter with its silver clasp about your famished 
throat ? Am I indiscreet when I inquire if 
its owner is your owner ? Is she some aged 
dame living in memory of youthful vanities, 
fond, doting on you, decorating you with her 
intimate personal attire ? The circumference 
of the garter would suggest this, for your 
neck is thin, and the garter fits you. But then 
again I notice — I notice most things — that 
the garter is capable of being much enlarged. 
Th e se small silver-rimmed eyelets, of which I 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I 7 0 

count five, are proof of that. And now I 
observe that the fifth eyelet is worn out, as 
though the tongue of the clasp were accus- 
tomed to lie there. That seems to argue a 
well-rounded form.” 

The cat curled her toes in contentment. 
The street was very still outside. 

He murmured on : “Why should your mis- 
tress decorate you with an article most neces- 
sary to her at all times ? Anyway, at most 
times. How did she come to slip this bit of 
silk and silver about your neck ? Was it the 
caprice of a moment, — when you, before you 
had lost your pristine plumpness, marched 
singing into her bedroom to bid her good- 
morning ? Of course, and she sat up among 
the pillows, her coiled hair tumbling to her 
shoulders, as you sprang upon the bed pur- 
ring : ‘Good-day, my lady.’ Oh, it is very 
easy to understand,” he yawned, resting his 
head on the back of the chair. The cat still 
purred, tightening and relaxing her padded 
claws over his knee. 

“ Shall I tell you all about her, cat ? She 
is very beautiful — your mistress,” he mur- 
mured drowsily, “ and her hair is heavy as 
burnished gold.” “I could paint her, — not 
on canvas — for I should need shades and 
tones and hues and dyes more splendid than 
the iris of a splendid rainbow. I could only 
paint her with closed eyes, for in dreams alone 
can such colors as I need be found. For 
her eyes, I must have azure from skies un- 
troubled by a cloud — the skies of dreamland. 
For her lips, roses from the palaces of slum- 
berland, and for her brow, snow-drifts from 
mountains which tower in fantastic pinnacles 
to the moons ; — oh, much higher than our 


THE STREET OR THE EOUR WINDS, 

moon here, — the crystal moons of dreamland. 
She is — very — beautiful, your mistress.” 

The words died on his lips and his eyelids 
drooped. 

The cat too was asleep, her cheek turned 
up upon her wasted flank, her paws relaxed 
and limp. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


Vj± 


II. 


IT is fortunate,” said Severn, sitting 
up and stretching, “ that we have 
tided over the dinner hour, for I 
have nothing to offer you for 
supper but what may be purchased with one 
silver franc.” 

The cat on his knee rose, arched her back, 
yawned, and looked up at him. 

“ What shall it be ? A roast chicken with 
salad ? No ? Possibly you prefer beef? 
Of course, — and I shall try an egg and some 
white bread. Now for the wines. Milk for 
you ? Good. I shall take a little water, fresh 
from the wood,” with a motion toward the 
bucket in the sink. 

He put on his hat and left the room. The 
cat followed to the door, and after he had 
closed it behind him, she settled down, smell- 
ing at the cracks, and cocking one ear at 
every creak from the crazy old building. 

The door below opened and shut. The cat 
looked serious, for a moment doubtful, and 
her ears flattened in nervous expectation. 
Presently, she rose with a jerk of her tail and 
started on a noiseless tour of the studio. She 
sneezed at a pot of turpentine, hastily re- 
treating to the table, which she presently 
mounted, and having satisfied her curiosity 
concerning a roll of red modelling wax, rc- 



THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS, 

turned to the door and sat down with her eyes 
on the crack over the threshold. Then she 
lifted her voice in a thin plaint. 

When Severn returned he looked grave, but 
the cat, joyous and demonstrative, marched 
around him, rubbing her gaunt body against 
his legs, driving her head enthusiastically into 
his hand, and purring until her voice mounted 
to a squeal. 

He placed a bit of meat, wrapped in brown 
paper, upon the table, and with a penknife cut 
it into shreds. The milk he took from a bottle 
which had served for medicine, and poured it 
into the saucer on the hearth. 

The cat crouched before it, purring and 
lapping at the same time. 

He cooked his egg and ate it with a slice of 
bread, watching her busy with the shredded 
meat, and when he had finished, and had 
filled and emptied a cup of water from the 
bucket in the sink, he sat down, taking her 
into his lap, where she at once curled up and 
began her toilet. He began to speak again, 
touching her caressingly at times by way of 
emphasis. 

•* Cat, I have found out where your mistress 
lives. It is not very far away ; — it is here, 
under this same leaky roof, but in the north 
wing which I had supposed was uninhabited. 
My janitor tells me this. By chance, he is 
almost sober this evening. The butcher on 
the rue de Seine, where I bought your meat, 
knows you, and old Cabane the baker iden- 
tified you with needless sarcasm. They tell 
me hard tales of your mistress which I shall 
not believe. They say she is idle and vain 
and pleasure-loving ; they say she is hare- 
brained and reckless. The little sculptor on 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


*74 

the ground floor, who was buying rolls from 
old Cabane, spoke to me to-night for the first 
time, although we have always bowed to each 
other. He said she was very good and very 
beautiful. He has only seen her once, and does 
not know her name. I thanked him ; — I don’t 
know why I thanked him so warmly. Cabane 
said, “Into this cursed Street of the Four 
Winds, the four winds blow all things evil.’* 
The sculptor looked confused, but when he 
went out with his rolls, he said to me, “ I am 
sure, Monsieur, that she is as good as she is 
beautiful." 

The cat had finished her toilet and now, 
springing softly to the floor, went to the door 
and sniffed. He knelt beside her, and unclasp- 
ing the garter held it for a moment in his 
hands. After a while he said : “ There is a 
name engraved upon the silver clasp beneath 
the buckle. It is a pretty name, Sylvia Elven. 
Sylvia is a woman’s name, Elven is the name 
of a town. In Paris, in this quarter, above 
all, in this Street of the Four Winds, names 
are worn and put away as the fashions change 
with the seasons. I know the little town of 
Elven, for there I met Fate face to face and 
Fate was unkind. But do you know that in 
Elven Fate had another name, and that name 
was Sylvia ? " 

He replaced the garter and stood up looking 
down at the cat crouched before the closed 
door. 

“ The name of Elven has a charm for me. 
It tells me of meadows and clear rivers. The 
name of Sylvia troubles me like perfume from 
dead flowers.” 

The cat mewed. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said soothingly, “ I will take 


THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS.. 

you back. Your Sylvia is not my Sylvia ; the 
world is wide and Elven is not unknown. Yet 
in the darkness and filth of poorer Paris, in 
the sad shadows of this ancient house, these 
names are very pleasant to me.” 

He lifted her in his arms and strode through 
the silent corridors to the stairs. Down five 
flights and into the moonlit court, past the lit- 
tle sculptor’s den, and then again in at the 
gate of the north wing and up the worm-eaten 
stairs he passed, until he came to a closed 
door. When he had stood knocking for a 
long time, something moved behind the door; 
it opened and he went in. The room was 
dark. As he crossed the threshold, the cat 
sprang from his arms into the shadows. He 
listened but heard nothing. The silence was 
oppressive and he struck a match. At his 
elbow stood a table and on the table a candle 
in a gilded candlestick. This he lighted, then 
looked around. The chamber was vast, the 
hangings heavy with embroidery. Over the 
fireplace towered a carved mantel, gray with 
the ashes of dead fires. In a recess by the 
deep-set windows stood a bed, from which the 
bed-clothes, soft and fine as lace, trailed to 
the polished floor. He lifted the candle above 
his head. A handkerchief lay at his feet. It 
was faintly perfumed. He turned toward the 
windows. In front of them was a canape and 
over it were flung, pell-mell, a gown of silk, a 
heap of lace-like garments, white and delicate 
as spiders’ meshes, long, crumpled gloves, and, 
on the floor beneath, the stockings, the little 
pointed shoes, and one garter of rosy silk, 
quaintly flowered and fitted with a silver 
clasp. Wondering, he stepped forwarded and 
drew the heavy curtains from the bed. For a 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I76 

moment the candle flared in his hand ; then 
his eyes met two other eyes, wide open, smil- 
ing, and the candle flame flashed over hair 
heavy as gold. 

She was pale, but not as white as he ; her 
eyes were untroubled as a child’s ; but he 
stared, trembling from head to foot while the 
candle flickered in his hand. 

At last he whispered : “ Sylvia, it is I.” 

Again he said, “ It is I.” 

Then, knowing that she was dead, he kissed 
her on the mouth. And through the long 
watches of the night, the cat purred on his 
knee, tightening and relaxing her padded 
claws, until the sky paled above the Street of 
the Four Winds. 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 

“ Be of Good Cheer, the Sullen Month will die. 

And a young Moon requite us by and by : 

Look how the Old one, meagre, bent, and wan 
With age and Fast, is fainting from the sky.” 






\ 




THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL 








HE room was already dark. The 
high roofs opposite cut off what 
little remained of the December 
daylight. The girl drew her chair 
nearer the window and choosing a large 
needle, threaded it, knotting the thread over 
her fingers. Then she smoothed the baby 
garment across her knees, and bending, bit 
off the thread and drew the smaller needle 
from where it rested in the hem. When she 
had brushed away the stray threads and bits 
of lace, she laid it again over her knees caress- 
ingly. Then she slipped the threaded needle 
from her corsage and passed it through a but- 
ton, but as the button spun down the thread, 
her hand faltered, the thread snapped, and 
the button rolled across the floor. She raised 
her head. Her eyes were fixed on a strip of 
waning light above the chimneys. From 
somewhere in the city came sounds like the 
distant beating of drums, and beyond, far be- 
yond, a vague muttering, now growing, swell- 
ing, rumbling in the distance like the pound- 
ing of surf upon the rocks, now like the surf 
again, receding, growling, menacing. The 
cold had become intense, a bitter piercing 
cold which strained and snapped at joist and 
beam and turned the slush of yesterday to 
flint. From the street below every sound 
broke sharp and metallic — the clatter of sabots, 
the rattle of shutters or the rare sound of a 
179 



180 THE king in yellow. 

human voice. The air was heavy, weighted 
with the black cold as with a pall. To breathe 
was painful, to move an effort. 

In the desolate sky there was something that 
wearied, in the brooding clouds, something 
that saddened. It penetrated the freezing city 
cut by the freezing river, the splendid city 
with its towers and domes, its quays and 
bridges and its thousand spires. It entered 
the squares, it seized the avenues and the pal- 
aces, stole across bridges and crept among 
the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter, gray 
under the gray of the December sky. Sad- 
ness, utter sadness. A fine icy sleet was fall- 
ing, powdering the pavement with a tiny 
crystalline dust. It sifted against the window- 
panes and drifted in heaps along the sill. 
The light at the window had nearly failed, 
and the girl bent low over her work. Pres- 
ently she raised her head, brushing the curls 
from her eyes. 

“Jack ? ” 

“ Dearest ? ” 

“ Don’t forget to clean your palette.” 

He said, “all right,” and picking up the 
palette, sat down upon the floor in front of 
the stove. His head and shoulders were in 
the shadow, but the firelight fell across his 
knees and glimmered red on the blade of the 
♦palette knife. Full in the firelight beside him 
stood a color-box. On the lid was carved, 


J. TRENT. 

£cole des Beaux Arts. 

1870. 

This inscription was ornamented with an 
American and a French flag. 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL . 181 

The sleet blew against the window-panes, 
covering them with stars and diamonds, then, 
melting from the warmer air within, ran 
down and froze again in fern-like traceries. 

A dog whined and the patter of small paws 
sounded on the zinc behind the stove. 

“Jack dear, do you think Hercules is 
hungry ? ” 

The patter of paws was redoubled behind 
the stove. 

“ He’s whining,” she continued nervously, 
“and if it isn’t because he’s hungry it is be- 
cause ” 

Her voice faltered. A loud humming filled 
the air, the windows vibrated. 

“ Oh, Jack,” she cried, “ another ” but 

her voice was drowned in the scream of a 
shell tearing through the clouds overhead. 

“ That is the nearest yet,” she murmured. 

“ Oh, no,” he answered cheerfully, “ it prob- 
ably fell way over by Montmartre,” and as she 
did not answer, he said again with exagger- 
ated unconcern, “ They wouldn’t take the 
trouble to fire at the Latin Quarter ; anyway 
they haven’-t a battery that can hurt it.” 

After a while she spoke up brightly : “Jack 
dear, when are you going to take me to see 
Monsieur West’s statues ? ” 

“I will bet,” he said, throwing down his 
palette and walking over to the window be- 
side her, “ that Colette has been here to- 
day.” 

“ Why ? ” she asked, opening her eyes very 
wide. Then, “ Oh, it’s too bad ! — really, men 
are tiresome when they think they know every- 
thing ! And I warn you that if Monsieur 
West is vain enough to imagine that Co- 
lette 


182 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


From the north another shell came whis- 
tling and quavering through the sky, passing 
above them with long-drawn screech which 
left the windows singing. 

“That,” he blurted out, “was too near for 
comfort.” 

They were silent for a while, then he spoke 
again gayly : “ Go on, Sylvia, and wither poor 
West : ” but she only sighed, “ Oh, dear, I can 
never seem to get used to the shells.” 

He sat down on the arm of the chair beside 
her. 

Her scissors fell jingling to the floor ; she 
tossed the unfinished frock after them, and 
putting both arms about his neck drew him 
down into her lap. 

“ Don’t go out to-night, Jack.” 

He kissed her uplifted face ; “You know I 
must ; don’t make it hard for me.” 

“ But when I hear the shells and — and know 
you are out in the city ” 

“ But they all fall in Montmartre ” 

“ They may all fall in the Beaux Arts, you 
said yourself that two struck the Quai d’Or- 


“ Mere accident ” 

“Jack, have pity on me! Take me with 
you ! ” 

“ And who will there be to get dinner ? ” 

She rose and flung herself on the bed. 

“ Oh, I can’t get used to it and I know you 
must go, but I beg you not to be late to din- 
ner. If you knew what I suffer ! I — I — can- 
not help it and you must be patient with me, 
dear.” 

He said, “ It is as safe there as it is in our 
own house.” 

She watched him fill for her the alcohol 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL . 

lamp, and when he had lighted it and had 
taken his hat to go, she jumped up and clung 
to him in silence. After a moment he said : 
“ Now, Sylvia, remember my courage is sus- 
tained by yours. Come, I must go ! ” She 
did not move and he repeated : “ I must go.” 
Then she stepped back and he thought she 
was going to speak and waited, but she only 
looked at him, and, a little impatiently, he 
kissed her again, saying : “ Don’t worry, 
dearest.” 

When he had reached the last flight of 
stairs on his way to the street a woman hob- 
bled out of the housekeeper’s lodge waving a 
letter and calling : “ Monsieur Jack ! Mon- 
sieur Jack ! this was left by Monsieur Fal- 
lowby ! ” 

He took the letter, and leaning on the 
threshold of the lodge, read it : 

“ Dear Jack, 

“ I believe Braith is dead broke and I’m sure 
Fallowby is. Braith swears he isn’t, and Fal- 
lowby swears he is, so you can draw your own 
conclusions. I’ve got a scheme for a dinner, 
and if it works, I will let you fellows in. 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“ West. 

“ P. S. — Fallowby has shaken Hartman and 
his gang, thank the Lord ! There is some- 
thing rotten there, — or it may be he’s only a 
miser. 

“ P. P. S. — I’m more desperately in love than 
ever, but I’m sure she does not care a straw 
for me.” 

“ All right,” said Trent, with a smile, to 


THE KING IN YELLOW , . 


184 

the concierge ; “ but tell me, how is Papa 
Cottard ? ” 

The old woman shook her head and pointed 
to the curtained bed in the lodge. 

“ P6re Cottard ! ” he cried cheerily, “ how 
goes the wound to-day ? ” 

He walked over to the bed and drew the 
curtains. An old man was lying among the 
tumbled sheets. 

“ Better ? ” smiled Trent. 

“ Better,” repeated the man wearily ; and, 
after a pause ; “ have you any news, Monsieur 
Jack ? ” 

“ I haven’t been out to-day. I will bring 
you any rumor I may hear, though goodness 
knows I’ve got enough of rumors,” he muttered 
to himself. Then aloud : “ Cheer up ; you’re 
looking better.” 

“ And the sortie ? ” 

“ Oh, the sortie, that’s for this week. Gen- 
eral Trochu sent orders last night.” 

“ It will be terrible.” 

“ It will be sickening,” thought Trent as he 
went out into the street and turned the corner 
toward the rue de Seine ; slaughter, slaughter, 
phew ! I’m glad I’m not going.” 

The street was almost deserted. A few 
women muffled in tattered military capes crept 
along the frozen pavement, and a wretchedly 
clad gamin hovered over the sewer hole on the 
corner of the Boulevard. A rope around his 
waist held his rags together. From the rope 
hung a rat, still warm and bleeding. 

“ There’s another in there,” he yelled at 
Trent ; “ I hit him but he got away.” 

Trent crossed the street and asked : “ How 
much ? ” 

“ Two francs for a quarter of a fat one ; 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL . jg^ 

that’s what they give at the St. Germain Mar- 
ket.” 

A violent fit of coughing interrupted him, 
but he wiped his face with the palm of his 
hand and looked cunningly at Trent. 

“ Last week you could buy a rat for six 
francs, but,” and here he swore vilely, *• the 
rats have quit the rue de Seine and they kill 
them now over by the new hospital. I’ll let 
you have this for seven francs ; I can sell it for 
ten in the Isle St. Louis.” 

“ You lie,” said Trent, “ and let me tell you 
that if you try to swindle anybody in this 
quarter the people will make short work of you 
and your rats.” 

He stood a moment eyeing the gamin, who 
pretended to snivel. Then he tossed him a 
franc, laughing. The child caught it, and 
thrusting it into his mouth wheeled about to 
the sewer hole. For a second he crouched, 
motionless, alert, his eyes on the bars of the 
drain, then leaping forward he hurled a stone 
into the gutter, and Trent left him to finish a 
fierce gray rat that writhed squealing at the 
mouth of the sewer. 

“ Suppose Braith should come to that,” he 
thought ; “ poor little chap ; ” and hurrying, 
he turned in the dirty passage des Beaux Arts 
and entered the third house to the left. 

“ Monsieur is at home,” quavered the old 
concierge. 

Home ? A garret absolutely bare, save for 
the iron bedstead in the corner and the iron 
basin and pitcher on the floor. 

West appeared at the door, winking with 
much mystery and motioned Trent to enter. 
Braith, who was painting in bed to keep warm, 
looked up, laughed, and shook hands. 


i86 


: THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ Any news ? ” 

The perfunctory question was answered as 
usual by : “ nothing but the cannon.” 

Trent sat down on the bed. 

“ Where on earth did you get that ? ” he 
demanded, pointing to a half-finished chicken 
nestling in a wash-basin. 

West grinned. 

“ Are you millionaires, you two ? Out with 
it.” 

Braith, looking a little ashamed, began, 
“ Oh, it’s one of West’s exploits,” but was cut 
short by West, who said he would tell the 
story himself. 

“ You see, before the siege, I had a letter of 
introduction to a “ type " here, a fat banker, 
German-American variety. You know the 
species, I see. Well, of course I forgot to pre- 
sent the letter, but this morning, judging it to 
be a favorable opportunity, I called on him. 

The villain lives in comfort ; — fires, my boy ! 
— fires in the anterooms ! The Buttons finally 
condescends to ‘carry my letter and card up, 
leaving me standing in the hallway, which I did 
not like, so I entered the first room I saw and 
nearly fainted at the sight of a banquet on a 
table by the fire. Down comes Buttons, very 
insolent. No, oh, no, his master ‘ is not at 
home, and in fact is too busy to receive letters 
of introduction just now ; the siege, and many 
business difficulties ’ 

“ I deliver a kick to Buttons, pick up this 
chicken from the table, toss my card on to the 
empty plate, and addressing Buttons as a 
species of Prussian pig, march out with the 
honors of war.” 

Trent shook his head. 

“I forgot to say that Hartman often dines 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL, jgy 

there, and I draw my own conclusions,” con- 
tinued West. “ Now about this chicken, half 
of it is for Braith and myself and half for Co- 
lette, but of course you will help me eat my 
part because I’m not hungry.” 

“ Neither am I,” began Braith, but Trent, 
with a smile at the pinched faces before him, 
shook his head saying, “ What nonsense ! You 
know I’m never hungry ! ” 

West hesitated, reddened, and then slicing 
off Braith ’s portion, but not eating any him- 
self, said, good-night, and hurried away to 
number 470 rue Serpente, where lived a pretty 
girl named Colette, orphan after Sedan, and 
Heaven alone knew where she got the roses 
in her cheeks, for the siege came hard on the 
poor. 

“ That chicken will delight her, but I really 
believe she’s in love with West,” said Trent. 
Then walking over to the bed : “ See here, old 
man, no dodging, you know, how much have 
you left ? ” 

The other hesitated, and flushed. 

“Come, old chap,” insisted Trent. 

Braith drew a purse from beneath his bolster 
and handed it to his friend with a simplicity 
that touched him. 

“ Seven sous,” he counted ; “ you make me 
tired ! Why on earth don’t you come to me ? 

I take it d- d ill, Braith ! How many times 

must I go over the same thing and explain to 
you that because I have money it is my duty 
to share it, and your duty and the duty of every 
American to share it with me ? You can’t 
get a cent, the city’s blockaded, and the 
American Minister has his hands full with all 
the German riff-raff and deuce knows what ! 
Why don’t you act sensibly ? ” 


j88 THE king in yellow. 

“ I — I will, Trent, but it’s an obligation that 
perhaps I can never even in part repay, I’m 
poor and ” 

“ Of course you’ll pay me ! If I were a 
usurer I would take your talent for security. 
When you are rich and famous ” 

‘‘Don’t, Trent ” 

“All right, only no more monkey business.” 

He slipped a dozen gold pieces into the 
purse and tucking it again under the mattress 
smiled at Braith. 

“ How old are you ? ” he demanded. 

“ Sixteen.” 

Trent laid his hand lightly on his friend’s 
shoulder. “ I’m twenty-two, and I have the 
rights of a grandfather as far as you are con- 
cerned. You’ll do as I say until you’re twenty- 
one.” 

“The siege will be over then I hope,” said 
Braith trying to laugh, but the prayer in their 
hearts : “ How long, O Lord, how long ! ” was 
answered by the swift scream of a shell soar- 
ing among the storm-clouds of that December 
night. 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 


189 


II. 



EST, standing- in the doorway of a 
house in the rue Serpente, was 
speaking angrily. He said he didn’t 
care whether Hartman liked it or 
was telling him, not arguing with 

call yourself an American ! ” he 
; “ Berlin and hell are full of that 
kind of American. You come loafing about 
Colette with your pockets stuffed with white 
bread and beef, and a bottle of wine at thirty 
francs and you can’t really afford to give a 
dollar to the American Ambulance and 
Public Assistance, which Braith does, and 
he’s half starved ! ” 

Hartman retreated to the curbstone, but 
West followed him, his face like a thunder- 
cloud. “ Don’t you dare to call yourself a 
countryman of mine,” he growled, — “ no, — nor 
an artist either ! Artists don’t worm them- 
selves into the service of the Public Defense 
where they do nothing but feed like rats on 
the people’s food ! And I’ll tell you now,” he 
continued, dropping his voice, for Hartman 
had started as though stung, “ you might 
better keep away from that Alsatian Brasserie 
and the smug-faced thieves who haunt it. 
You know what they do with suspects ! ” 

“ You lie, you hound ! ” screamed Hart- 
man, and flung the bottle in his hand straight 
at West’s face. West had him by the throat 


THE KING IN YELL01V. 


I90 

in a second, and forcing him against the dead 
wall shook him wickedly. 

“ Now you listen to me,” he muttered, 
through his clenched teeth. “ You are 
already a suspect and — I swear — I believe you 
are a paid spy ! It isn’t my business to detect 
such vermin, and I don’t intend to denounce 
you, but understand this ! Colette don’t like 
you and I can’t stand you, and if I catch you 
in this street again I’ll make it somewhat 
unpleasant. Get out, you sleek Prussian ! ” 

Hartman had managed to drag a knife 
from his pocket but West tore it from him 
and hurled him into the gutter. A gamin 
who had seen this, burst into a peal of 
laughter, which rattled harshly in the silent 
street. Then everywhere windows were raised 
and rows of haggard faces appeared demand- 
ing to know why people should laugh in the 
starving city. 

“ Is it a victory ? ” murmured one. 

“Look at that,” cried West as Hartman 
picked himself up from the pavement, “ look ! 
you miser ! look at those faces ! ” But Hart- 
man gave him a look which he never forgot, 
and walked away without a word. Trent, 
who suddenly appeared at the corner, glanced 
curiously at West, who merely nodded toward 
his door saying, “come in; Fallowby’s up- 
stairs.” 

“ What are you doing with that knife ? ” 
demanded Fallowby, as he and Trent entered 
the studio. 

West looked at his wounded hand which 
still clutched the knife, but saying : “ cut my- 
self by accident,” tossed it into a corner and 
washed the blood from his fingers. 

Fallowby, fat and lazy, watched him with- 


THE STREET OF THE FIRS T SHELL. 1 g 1 

out comment, but Trent, half divining how 
things had turned, walked over to Fallowby 
smiling. 

“ I’ve a bone to pick with you ! ” he said. 

“ Where is it ? I’m hungry,” replied 
Fallowby with affected eagerness, but Trent, 
frowning, told him to listen. 

“ How much did I advance you a week 
ago ? ” 

“Three hundred and eighty francs,” replied 
the other, with a squirm of contrition. 

“ Where is it ? ” 

Fallowby began a series of intricate expla- 
nations which were soon cut short by Trent. 

“ I know ; you blew it in you always 
blow it in. I don’t care a rap what you did 
before the siege : I know you are rich and 
have a right to dispose of your money as you 
wish to, and I also know that, generally speak- 
ing, it is none of my business. But now it is 
my business as I have to supply the funds 
until you get some more, which you won’t 
until the siege is ended one way or another. I 
wish to share what I have, but I won’t see 
it thrown out of the window. Oh, yes, of 
course I know you will reimburse me, but that 
isn’t the question; and, anyway, it’s the opinion 
of your friends, old man, that you will not be 
worse off for a little abstinence from fleshly 
pleasures. You are positively a freak in this 
famine-cursed city of skeletons ! ” 

“ I am rather stout,” he admitted. 

“ Is it true you are out of money ? ” 
demanded Trent. 

“Yes, I am,” sighed the other. 

“That roast sucking pig on the rue St. 
Honors, — is it there yet ? ” continued Trent. 

“ Wh-at ? ” stammered the feeble one. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


192 

“ Ah — I thought so ! I caught you in ecstasy 
before that sucking pig at least a dozen 
times ! ” 

Then laughing, he presented Fallowby with 
a roll of twenty franc pieces saying : “ If 
these go for luxuries you must live on your 
own flesh,” and went over to aid West, who sat 
beside the wash-basin binding up his hand. 

West suffered him to tie the knot, and then 
said: “You remember, yesterday, when I 
left you and Braith to take the chicken to 
Colette.” 

“ Chicken ! Good Heavens ! ” moaned Fal- 
lowby. 

“Chicken,” repeated West, enjoying Fal- 
lowby’s grief; — “I — that is, I must explain 
that things are changed. Colette and I — are 
to be married ” 

“ What — what about the chicken ? ” groan- 
ed Fallowby. 

“Shut up!” laughed Trent, and slipping 
his arm through West’s, walked to the stair- 
way. 

“The poor little thing,” said West, “just 
think, not a splinter of firewood for a week 
and wouldn’t tell me because she thought I 
needed it for my clay figure. Whew ! When 
I heard it I smashed that smirking clay 
nymph to pieces, and the rest can freeze and 
be hanged ! ” After a moment he added 
timidly : — “ Won’t you call on your way down 
and say bon soir ? It’s No. 17.” 

“Yes,” said Trent, and he went out softly 
closing the door behind. 

He stopped on the third landing, lighted a 
match, scanned the numbers over the row of 
dingy doors, and knocked at No. 17. 

“C’est toi Georges ? ” The door opened. 


THE STREET OP THE ElRST SHELL. I( ^ 

“ Oh, pardon, Monsieur Jack,” I thought it 
was Monsieur West ; then blushing furiously; 
“ oh, I see you have heard ! Oh, thank you so 
much for your wishes, and I’m sure we love 
each other very much, — and I’m dying to see 
Sylvia and tell her and ” 

“ And what,” laughed Trent. 

“ I am very happy,” she sighed. 

“ He’s pure gold,” returned Trent, and then 
gayly : “ I want you and George to come and 
dine with us to-night. It’s a little treat, — you 
see to-morrow is Sylvia’s fete. She will be 
nineteen. I have written to Thorn, and the 
Guernalecs will come with their cousin Odile. 
Fallowby has engaged not to bring anybody 
but himself.” 

The girl accepted shyly, charging him with 
loads of loving messages to Sylvia, and he 
said good-night. 

He started up the street, walking swiftly for 
it was bitter cold, and cutting across the rue 
de la Lune he entered the rue de Seine. The 
early winter night had fallen, almost without 
warning, but the sky was clear and myriads 
of stars glittered in the heavens. The bom- 
bardment had become furious — a steady rolling 
thunder from the Prussian cannon punctuated 
by the heavy shocks from Mont Vaferien. 

The shells streamed across the sky leaving 
trails like shooting stars, and now, as he 
turned to look back, rockets blue and red 
flared above the horizon from the Fort of Issy, 
and the Fortress of the North flamed like a 
bonfire. 

“ Good news ! ” a man shouted over by the 
Boulevard St. Germain. As if by magic the 
streets were filled with people, — shivering, 
chattering people with shrunken eyes. 

*3 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I94 

“ Jacques ! ” cried one, — “ The Army of the 
Loire ! ” * 

“ Eh ! ” mon vieux, it has come then at last ! 
I told thee ! I told thee ! To-morrow — to- 
night — who knows ? ” 

“ Is it true ? Is it a sortie ? ” 

Some one said : “ Oh, God — a sortie — and 
my son ? ” Another cried : “ to the Seine ? 
They say one can see the signals of the Army 
of the Loire from the Pont Neuf.” 

There was a child standing near Trent who 
kept repeating : “ Mamma, Mamma, then to- 
morrow we may eat white bread ? ” and beside 
him, an old man swaying, stumbling, his shriv- 
elled hands crushed to his breast, muttering as 
if insane. 

“ Could it be true ? Who has heard the 
news ? The shoemaker on the rue de Buci 
had it from a Mobile who had heard a Franc- 
tireur repeat it to a captain of *he National 
Guard.” 

Trent followed the throng surging through 
the rue de Seine to the river. 

Rocket after rocket clove the sky, and now, 
from Montmartre, the cannon clanged, and the 
batteries on Montparnasse joined in with a 
crash. The bridge was packed with people. 

Trent asked : “Who has seen the signals 
of the Army of the Loire ? ” 

“We are waiting,” was the reply. 

He looked toward the north. Suddenly the 
huge silhouette of the Arc de Triomphe 
sprang into black relief against the flash of a 
cannon. The boom of the gun rolled along 
the quay and the old bridge vibrated, 

Again over by the Point du Jour a flash and 
heavy explosion shook the bridge, and then the 
whole eastern bastion of the fortifications 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL, 

blazed and crackled, sending a red flame into 
the sky. 

“ Has any one seen the signals yet ? ” he 
asked again. 

“We are waiting,” was the reply. 

“Yes, waiting,” murmured a man behind 
him, “ waiting, sick, starved, freezing, but 
waiting. Is it a sortie ? They go gladly. Is 
it to starve ? They starve. They have no 
time to think of surrender. Are they heroes, 
— these Parisians ? answer me, Trent ! ” 

The American Ambulance surgeon turned 
about and scanned the parapets of the bridge. 

“ Any news, Doctor,” asked Trent mechani- 
cally, 

“ News ? ” said the doctor ; “ I don’t know 
any ; — I haven’t time to know any. What are 
these people after ? ” 

“ They say that the Army of the Loire has 
signalled Mont Valgrien.” 

“ Poor devils.” The doctor glanced about 
him for an instant, and then : “ I’m so harried 
and worried that I don’t know what to do. 
After the last sortie we had the work of fifty 
ambulances on our poorlittle corps. To-mor- 
row there’s another sortie and I wish you fel- 
lows could come over to headquarters. We 
may need volunteers. How is madame ? ” 
he added abruptly. 

“Well,” replied Trent, “but she seems to 
grow more nervous every day. I ought to be 
with her now.” 

“Take care of her,” said the doctor, then 
with a sharp look at the people : “ I can’t stop 
now — good-night ! ” and he hurried away mut- 
tering, “ poor devils ! ” 

Trent leaned over the parapet and blinked 
at the black river surging through the arches. 


THE KING IN YELLOW, 


I96 

Dark objects, carried swiftly on the breast of 
the current, struck with a grinding tearing 
noise against the stone piers, spun around for 
an instant, and hurried away into the dark- 
ness. The ice from the Marne. 

As he stood staring into the water, a hand 
was laid on his shoulder. “ Hello, South- 
wark ! ” he cried, turning around ; “ this is a 
queer place for you ! ” 

“ Trent, I have something to tell you. 
Don’t stay ''ere, — don’t believe in the Army 
of the Loire : ” and the attache of the Ameri- 
can Legation slipped his arm through Trent’s 
and drew him toward the Louvre. 

“ Then it’s another lie ! ” said Trent bitterly. 

“ Worse — we know at the Legation — I can’t 
speak of it. But that’s not what I have to say. 
Something happened this afternoon. The Al- 
satian Brasserie was visited and an American 
named Hartman has been arrested. Do you 
know him ? ” 

“ I know a German who calls himself an 
American ; — his name is Hartman.” 

“ Well, he was arrested about two hours 
ago. They mean to shoot him.” 

“ What ! ” 

“ Of course we at the Legation can’t allow 
them to shoot him off-hand, but the evidence 
seems conclusive.” 

“ Is he a spy ? ” 

“Well, the papers seized in his rooms are 
pretty damning proofs, and besides he was 
caught, they say, swindling the Public Food 
Committee. He drew rations for fifty, how, 

I don’t know. He claims to be an Ameri- 
can artist here and we have been obliged to 
take notice of it at the Legation. It’s a nasty 
affair.” 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. jgj 

“To cheat the people at such a time is 
worse than robbing the poor-box,” cried 
Trent angrily. “ Let them shoot him ! ” 

“ He’s an American citizen.” 

“ Yes, oh yes,” said the other with bitter- 
ness. “ American citizenship is a precious 
privilege when every goggle-eyed Ger- 
man ” His anger choked him. 

Southwark shook hands with him warmly. 
“ It can’t be helped, we must own the carrion. 
I am afraid you may be called upon to iden- 
tify him as an American artist,” he said with 
a ghost of a smile on his deep-lined face ; and 
walked away through the Cours la Reine. 

Trent swore silently for a moment and then 
drew out his watch. Seven o’clock. “Syl- 
via will be anxious,” he thought, and hurried 
back to the river. The crowd still huddled 
shivering on the bridge, a sombre pitiful 
congregation, peering out into the night for 
the signals of the Army of the Loire : and 
their hearts beat time to the pounding of the 
guns, their eyes lighted with each flash from 
the bastions, and hope rose with the drifting 
rockets. 

A black cloud hung over the fortifications. 
From horizon to horizon the cannon smoke 
stretched in wavering bands, now capping the 
spires and domes with cloud, now blowing in 
streamers and shreds along the streets, now 
descending from the house-tops, enveloping 
quays, bridges, and river, in a sulphurous 
mist. And through the smoke pall the light- 
ning of the cannon played while from time to 
time a rift above showed a fathomless black 
vault set with stars. 

He turned again into the rue de Seine, that 
§ad abandoned street, with its rows of closed 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


I98 

shutters and desolate ranks of unlighted lamps. 
He was a little nervous and wished once or 
twice for a revolver, but the slinking forms 
which passed him in the darkness were too 
weak with hunger to be dangerous, he thought, 
and he passed on unmolested to his doorway. 
But there somebody sprang at his throat. 
Over and over the icy pavement he rolled 
with his assailant, tearing at the noose about 
his neck, and then with a wrench sprang to 
his feet. 

“ Get up,” he cried to the other. 

Slowly and with great deliberation, a small 
gamin picked himself out of the gutter and 
surveyed Trent with disgust. 

“That’s a nice clean trick,” said Trent; 
“ a whelp of your age ! You’ll finish against a 
dead wall ! Give me that cord ! ” 

The urchin handed him the noose without 
a word. 

Trent struck a match and looked at his as«= 
sailant. It was the rat-killer of the day be- 
fore. 

“ H’m ! I thought so,” he muttered. 

“Tiens, cest toi ? ” said the gamin tran- 
quilly. 

The impudence, the overpowering audacity 
of the ragamuffin took Trent’s breath away. 

“ Do you know, you young strangler,” he 
gasped, “ that they shoot thieves of your age ? ” 

The child turned a passionless face to Trent. 

“ Shoot, then.” 

That was too much, and he turned on his 
heel and entered his hotel. 

Groping up the unlighted stairway, he at 
last reached his own landing and felt about 
in the darkness for the door. From his studio 
game the sound of voices, West’s hearty laugh 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL, jgg 

and Faliowby ’s chuckle, and at last he found 
the knob and, pushing- back the door, stood a 
moment confused by the light 

“Hello, Jack!” cried West, “you’re a 
pleasant creature, inviting people to dine and 
letting them wait. Here’s Faliowby weeping 
with hunger ” 

“ Shut up,” observed the latter, “ perhaps 
he’s been out to buy a turkey.” 

“ He’s been out garroting, look at his noose ! ” 
laughed Guernalec. 

“So now we know where you get your 
cash ! ” added West ; “ vive le coup du P&re 
Francois ! ” 

Trent shook hands with everybody and 
laughed at Sylvia’s pale face. 

“ I didn’t mean to be late ; I stopped on the 
bridge a moment to watch the bombardment. 
Were you anxious, Sylvia ? ” 

She smiled and murmured, “ Oh, no ! ” but 
her hand dropped into his and tightened con- 
vulsively. 

“To the table!” shouted Faliowby, and 
uttered a joyous whoop. 

“ Take it easy,” observed Thorne, with a 
remnant of manners ; “you are not the host, 
you know.” 

Marie Guernalec, who had been chattering 
with Colette, jumped up and took Thorne’s 
arm and Monsieur Guernalec drew Odile’s 
arm through his. 

Trent, bowing gravely, offered his own arm 
to Colette, West took in Sylvia, and Faliowby 
hovered anxiously in the rear. 

“You march around the table three times 
singing the Marseillaise,” explained Sylvia, 
“ and Monsieur Faliowby pounds on the table 
and beats time.” 


200 


THE KING IN YELL01V. 


Fallowby suggested that they could sing 
after dinner, but his protest was drowned in 
the ringing chorus 

“ Aux armea ! 

Formez vos bataillons ! ” 

Around the room they marched singing, 

** Marchons ! Marchons ! ,f 

with all their might, while Fallowby with very- 
bad grace, hammered on the table, consoling 
himself a little with the hope that the exercise 
would increase his appetite. Hercules, the 
black and tan, fled under the bed, from which 
retreat he yapped and whined until dragged 
out by Guernalec and placed in Odile’s lap. 

“And now,” said Trent gravely, when 
everybody was seated, “ listen ! ” and he read 
the menu. 

Beef Soup a la Siege de Paris. 


Fish. 

Sardines a la p&re Lachaise. 
(White Wine) 


Roti (Red Wine). 
Fresh Beef a la sortie. 


Vegetables. 

Canned Beans a la chasse=pot. 
Canned Peas Gravelotte, 
Potatoes Irlandaises, 
Miscellaneous, 


Cold Corned Beef & la Thiers, 
Stewed Prunes a la Garibaldi. 


Dessert. 

Dried prunes— White bread, 
Currant Jelly, 

Tea— Cafe, 
Liqueurs, 

Pipes and Cigarettes, 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 2 Ol 

Fallowby applauded frantically, and Sylvia 
served the soup. 

“ Isn’t it delicious ? ” sighed Odile. 

Marie Guernalec sipped her soup in rapture. 

“ Not at all like horse, and I don’t care what 
they say, horse doesn’t taste like beef,” whis- 
pered Colette to West. Fallowby who had 
finished, began to caress his chin and eye the 
tureen. 

“ Have some more, old chap ? ” inquired 
Trent. 

“ Monsieur Fallowby cannot have any 
more,” announced Sylvia ; “ I am saving this 
for the concierge.” Fallowby transferred his 
eyes to the fish. 

The sardines, hot from the grille, were a 
great success. While the others were 
eating Sylvia ran downstairs with the soup 
for the old concierge and her husband, and 
when she hurried back, flushed and breath- 
less, and had slipped into her chair with a 
happy smile at Trent, that young man arose, 
and silence fell over the table. For an in- 
stant he looked at Sylvia and thought he 
had never seen her so beautiful. 

“You all know,” he began, “ that to-day is 
my wife’s nineteenth birthday ” 

Fallowby, bubbling with enthusiasm, waved 
his glass in circles about his head to the terror 
of Odile and Colette, his neighbors, and 
Thorne, West and Guernalec refilled their 
glasses three times before the storm of 
•applause which the toast of Sylvia had 
provoked, subsided. 

Three times the glasses were filled and 
emptied to Sylvia, and again to Trent who 
protested. 

f* Jhis is irregular,” he cried, “ the next 


202 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


toast is to the twin Republics, France and 
America ? ” 

“To the Republics! To the Republics!” 
they cried, and the toast was drunk amid 
shouts of “ Vive la France ! Vive l’Amerique ! 
Vive la Nation ! ” 

Then Trent, with a smile at West, offered 
the toast, “To a Happy Pair!” and every- 
body understood, and Sylvia leaned over and 
kissed Colette while Trent bowed to West. 

The beef was eaten in comparative calm, 
but when it was finished and a portion of it 
set aside for the old people below, Trent 
cried : “ Drink to Paris ! May she rise from 
her ruins and crush the invader ! ” and the 
cheers rang out, drowning for a moment the 
monotonous thunder of the Prussian guns. 

Pipes and cigarettes were lighted, and Trent 
listened an instant to the animated chatter 
around him, broken by ripples of laughter 
from the girls or the mellow chuckle of Fal- 
lowby. Then he turned to West. 

“ There is going to be a sortie to-night,” he 
said, “ I saw the American Ambulance sur- 
geon just before I came in and he asked me 
to speak to you fellows. Any aid we can give 
him will not come amiss.” 

Then dropping his voice and speaking in 
English, “ As for me, I shall go out with the 
ambulance to-morrow morning. There is of 
course no danger, but it’s just as well to keep 
it from Sylvia.” 

West nodded. Thorne and Guernalec, who 
had heard, broke in and offered assistance, and 
Fallowby volunteered with a groan. 

“ All right,” said Trent rapidly, — “ no more 
now, but meet me at Ambulance headquarters 
to-morrow morning at eight,” 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 203 

Sylvia and Colette, who were becoming un- 
easy at the conversation in English, now 
demanded to know what they were talking 
about. 

“ What does a sculptor usually talk about ? ’* 
cried West, with a laugh. 

Odile glanced reproachfully at Thorne, her 
fiance. 

“You are not French, you know, and it is 
none of your business, this war,” said Odile 
with much dignity. 

Thorne looked meek, but West assumed an 
air of outraged virtue. 

“It seems,” he said to Fallowby, “that a 
fellow cannot discuss the beauties of Greek 
sculpture in his mother tongue, without being 
openly suspected.” 

Colette placed her hand over his mouth and 
turning to Sylvia, murmured, “ They are hor- 
ridly untruthful, these men.” 

“ I believe the word for ambulance is the 
same in both languages,” said Marie Guernalec 
saucily ; “ Sylvia, don’t trust Monsieur 

Trent.” 

“ Jack, ” whispered Sylvia, “ promise 
>> 

me 

A knock at the studio door interrupted 
her. 

“Come in!" cried Fallowby, but Trent 
sprang up, and opening the door, looked out. 
Then with a hasty excuse to the rest, he 
stepped into the hall-way and closed the 
door. 

When he returned he was grumbling. 

“What is it, Jack ? ” cried West. 

“What is it?” repeated Trent savagely; 
“ I’ll tell you what it is. I have received a 
dispatch from the American Minister to go at 


TtfE W YeLLOJV. 


264 


once and identify and claim, as a fellow- 
countryman and a brother artist, a rascally 
thief and a German spy ! ” 

“ Don’t go,” suggested Fallowby. 

“ If I don’t they’ll shoot him at once.” 

“Let them,” growled Thorne. 

“ Do you fellows know who it is ? ” 

“ Hartman ! ” shouted West, inspired. 

Sylvia sprang up deathly white, but Odile 
slipped her arm around her and supported 
her to a chair, saying calmly, “Sylvia has 
fainted, — it’s the hot room, — bring some 
water.” 

Trent brought it at once. 

Sylvia opened her eyes, and after a moment 
rose, and supported by Marie Guernalec and 
Trent, passed into the bedroom. 

It was the signal for breaking up, and 
everybody came and shook hands with Treni, 
saying they hoped Sylvia would sleep it ofl 
and that it would be nothing. 

When Marie Guernalec took leave of him, 
she avoided his eyes, but he spoke to her cor- 
dially and thanked her for her aid. 

“ Anything I can do, Jack ? ” inquired West, 
lingering, and then hurried downstairs ta 
catch up with the rest. 

Trent leaned over the banisters, listening 
to their footsteps and chatter, and then the 
lower door banged and the house was si- 
lent. He lingered, staring down into the 
blackness, biting his lips ; then with an im- 
patient movement, “ I am crazy ! ” he mut- 
tered, and lighting a candle, went into the 
bedroom. Sylvia was lying on the bed. He 
bent ov£r her, smoothing the curly hair on 
her forehead. 

“ Are you better, dear Sylvia ? ” 


fHL STREET OF THE FlkST SHELL. 205 

She did not answer, but. raised her eyes to 
his. For an instant he met her gaze, but 
what he read there sent a chill to his heart 
and he sat down covering his face with his 
hands. 

At last she spoke in a voice, changed and 
strained, — a voice which he had never heard, 
and he dropped his hands and listened, bolt 
upright in his chair. 

“Jack, it has come at last. I have feared 
it and trembled, — ah ! how often have I lain 
awake at night with this on my heart and 
prayed that I might die before you should 
ever know of it ! For I love you, Jack, and 
if you go away I cannot live. I have de- 
ceived you ; — it happened before I knew you, 
but since that first day when you found me 
weeping in the Luxembourg and spoke to me, 
Jack, I have been faithful to you in every 
thought and deed. I loved you from the first, 
and did not dare to tell you this — fearing that 
you would go away ; and since then my love 
has grown — grown — and oh ! I suffered ! — 
but I dared not tell you. And now you know, 
but you do not know the worst. For him — 
now — what do I care ? He was cruel — oh so 
cruel ! ” 

She hid her face in her arms. 

“ Must I go on ? ” Must I tell you — can 
you not imagine, oh ! Jack ” 

He did not stir ; his eyes seemed dead. 

“ I — I was so young, I knew nothing, and 
he said — said that he loved me ” 

Trent rose and struck the candle with his 
clenched fist, arid the room was dark. 

The bells of St. Sulpice tolled the hour, and 
she started up, speaking with feverish haste, 


2o 5 THE KING IH YELLOW. 

— “I must finish! When you told me you 
loved me — you — you asked me nothing ; but 
then, even then, it was too late, and that 
other life which binds me to him, must stand 
forever between you and me ! For there is 
another whom he has claimed, and is good 
to. He must not die, — they cannot shoot 
him, for that other's sake ! ” 

Trent sat motionless but his thoughts ran 
on in an interminable whirl. 

Sylvia, little Sylvia, who shared with him 
his student life, — who bore with him the 
dreary desolation of the siege without com- 
plaint, — this slender blue-eyed girl whom he 
was so quietly fond of, whom he teased or 
caressed as the whim suited, who sometimes 
made him the least bit impatient with her 
passionate devotion to him, — could this be 
the same Sylvia who lay weeping there in the 
darkness ? ” 

Then he clinched his teeth. “ Let him 
die ! Let him die ! ” — but then, — for Sylvia’s 
sake, and, — for that other's sake, — “Yes, he 
would go, — he must go, — his duty was plain 
before him. But Sylvia, — he could not be 
what he had been to her, and yet a vague ter- 
ror seized him, now all was said. Trembling, 
he struck a light. 

She lay there, her curly hair tumbled about 
her face, her small white hands pressed to 
her breast. 

He could not leave her, and he could not 
stay. He never knew before that he loved 
her. She had been a mere comrade, this 
girl wife of his. Ah ! he loved her now with 
all his heart and soul, and he knew it, only 
when it was too late. Too late? Why? Then 
he thought of that other one, binding her, 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL, 

linking her forever to the creature, who stood 
in danger of his life. With an oath he sprang 
to the door, but the door would not open, — 
or was it that he pressed it back, — locked it, 
— and flung himself on his knees beside the 
bed, knowing that he dared not for his life's 
sake leave what was his all in life. 


THE KING IN YELLGrir* 


20 $ 


HI. 

T was four in the morning when he 
came out of the Prison of the Con- 
demned with the Secretary of the 
American Legation. A knot of peo- 
ple had gathered around the American Min- 
ister’s carriage, which stood in front of the 
prison, the horses stamping and pawing in 
the icy street, the coachman huddled on the 
box, wrapped in furs. Southwark helped the 
Secretary into the carriage, and shook hands 
with Trent, thanking him for coming. 

“ How the scoundrel did stare,” he said ; 
“your evidence was worse than a kick, but it 
saved his skin for the moment at least, — and 
prevented complications.” 

The Secretary sighed ; “ we have done our 
part. Now let them prove him a spy and we 
wash our hands of him. Jump in, Captain ! 
Come along Trent ! ” 

“ 1 have a word to say to Captain South- 
wark, I won’t detain him,” said Trent hastily, 
and dropping his voice, “ Southwark, help 
me now. You know the story from the black- 
guard. You know the — the child is at his 
rooms. Get it, and take it to my own apart- 
ment, and if he is shot, I will provide a home 
for it.” 

•• I understand,” said the Captain gravely. 

“ Will you do this at once ? ” 



THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 2oo 

“ At once,” he replied. 

Their hands met in a warm clasp and then 
Captain Southwark climbed into the carriage 
motioning Trent to follow; but he shook his 
head saying, “good-bye ! ” and the carriage 
rolled away. 

He watched the carriage to the end of the 
street, then started toward his own quarter, 
but after a step or two, hesitated, stopped and 
finally turned away in the opposite direction. 
Something — perhaps it was the sight of the 
prisoner he had so recently confronted nause- 
ated him. He felt the need of solitude and 
quiet to collect his thoughts. The events of 
the evening had shaken him terribly, but he 
would walk it off, forget, bury everything, and 
then go back to Sylvia. He started on swiftly 
and for a time the bitter thoughts seemed to 
fade, but when he paused at last, breathless, 
under the Arc de Triomphe, the bitterness and 
the wretchedness of the whole thing — yes, of 
his whole misspent life came back with a pang. 
Then the face of the prisoner, stamped with 
the horrible grimace of fear, grew in the 
shadows before his eyes. 

Sick at heart he wandered up and down un- 
der the great Arc, striving to occupy his mind, 
peering up at the sculptured cornices to read 
the names of the hero’s and battles which he 
knew were engraved there, but always the 
ashen face of Hartman followed him, grinning 
with terror ! — or was it terror ? — was it not 
triumph ? — At the thought he leaped like 
a man who feels a knife at his throat, but after 
a savage tramp around the square, came back 
again and sat down to battle with his misery. 

The air was cold, but his cheeks were burn- 
ing with angry shame. Shame ? Why ? 

H 


210 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


Was it because he had married a girl whom 
chance had made a mother ? Did he love 
her ? Was this miserable bohemian existence 
then his end and aim in life ? He turned his 
eyes upon the secrets of his heart, and read 
an evil story, — the story of the past, and he 
covered his face for shame, while, keeping 
time to the dull pain throbbing in his head, 
his heart beat out the story for the future. 
Shame and disgrace. 

Roused at last from a lethargy which had 
begun to numb the bitterness of his thoughts, 
he raised his head and looked about. A sud- 
den fog had settled in the streets ; the arches of 
the Arc were choked with it. He would go 
home. A great horror of being alone seized 
him. But he was not alone. The fog was 
peopled with phantoms. All around him in 
the mist they moved, drifting through the 
arches in lengthening lines, and vanished, 
while from the fog others rose up, swept past 
and were engulfed. He was not alone, for 
even at his side they crowded, touched him, 
swarmed before him, beside him, behind him, 
pressed him back, seized, and bore him with 
them through the mist. Down a dim avenue, 
through lanes and alleys white with fog, they 
moved, and if they spoke their voices were 
dull as the vapor which shrouded them. At 
last in front, a bank of masonry and earth cut 
by a massive iron barred gate towered up in 
the fog. Slowly and more slowly they glided, 
shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. 
Then all movement ceased. A sudden breeze 
stirred the fog. It wavered and eddied. Ob- 
jects became more distinct. A pallor crept 
above the horizon, touching the edges of the 
watery clouds, and drew dull sparks from a 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 


2 1 1 


thousand bayonets. Bayonets — they were 
everywhere, cleaving the fog or flowing be- 
neath it in rivers of steel. High on the wall 
of masonry and earth a great gun loomed, and 
around it figures moved in silhouettes. Be- 
low, a broad torrent of bayonets swept through 
the iron barred gateway, out into the shadowy 
plain. It became lighter. Faces grew more 
distinct among the marching masses and he 
recognized one. 

“ You, Philippe ! ” 

The figure turned its head. 

Trent cried, — “is there room for me ? ” but 
the other only waved his arm in a vague adieu 
and was gone with the rest. Presently the 
cavalry began to pass, squadron on squadron, 
crowding out into the darkness ; then many 
cannon, then an ambulance, then again the 
endless lines of bayonets. Beside him a cuir- 
assier sat on his steaming horse, and in front, 
among a group of mounted officers he saw a 
general, with the astrakan collar of his dol- 
man turned up about his bloodless face. 

Some women were weeping near him and 
one was struggling to force a loaf of black 
bread into a soldier’s haversack. The soldier 
tried to aid her, but the sack was fastened, 
and his rifle bothered him, so Trent held it, 
while the woman unbuttoned the sack and 
forced in the bread, now all wet with her 
tears. The rifle was not heavy. Trent 
found it wonderfully managable. Was the 
bayonet sharp ? He tried it. Then a sudden 
longing, a fierce, imperative desire took pos- 
session of him. 

“ Chouette ! ” cried a gamin, clinging to the 
barred gate ; “ encore toi mon vieux ?" 

Trent looked up, and the rat-killer laughed 


2 12 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


in his face. But when the soldier had taken 
the rifle again, and thanking him, ran hard to 
catch his battalion, he plunged into the throng 
about the gateway. 

“ Are you going ? ” he cried to a marine 
who sat in the gutter bandaging his foot. 

“Yes.” 

Then a girl, — a mere child caught him by 
the hand and led him into the cafe which 
faced the gate. The room was crowded with 
soldiers, some, white and silent, sitting on the 
floor, others groaning on the leather-covered 
settees. The air was sour and suffocating. 

“Choose ! ” said the girl with a little gest- 
ure of pity ; “they can’t go ! ” 

In a heap of clothing on the floor he found 
a capote and kepi. 

She helped him buckle his knapsack, car- 
tridge box, and belt, and showed him how to 
load the chasse-pot rifle, holding it on her 
knees. 

When he thanked her she started to her 
feet. 

“ You are a foreigner ! ” 

“American,” he said, moving toward the 
door, but the child barred his way. 

“ I am a Bretonne. My father is up there 
with the cannon of the marine. He will shoot 
you if you are a spy.” 

They faced each other for a moment. Then 
sighing, he bent over and kissed the child. 
“Pray for France, little one,” he murmured, 
and she repeated with a pale smile : “ for 
France and you, beau Monsieur.” 

He ran across the street and through the 
gateway. Once outside, he edged into line 
and shouldered his way along the road. A 
corporal passed, looked at him, repassed, and 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 2I ^ 

finally called an officer. “ You belong to the 
6oth,” growled the corporal looking at the 
number on his k6pi.” 

“We have no use for Franc-tireurs,” 
added the officer, catching sight of his black 
trowsers.” 

“ I wish to volunteer in place of a comrade,” 
said Trent, and the officer shrugged his shoul- 
ders and passed on. 

Nobody paid much attention to him, one or 
two merely glancing at his trowsers. The 
road was deep with slush and mud ploughed 
and torn by wheels and hoofs. A soldier in 
front of him wrenched his foot in an icy rut 
and dragged himself to the edge of the em- 
bankment groaning. The plain on either side 
of them was gray with melting snow. Here 
and there behind dismantled hedge-rows stood 
wagons, bearing white flags with red crosses. 
Sometimes the driver was a priest in rusty 
hat and gown, sometimes a crippled Mobile. 
Once they passed a wagon driven by a Sister 
of Charity. Silent empty houses with great 
rents in their walls, and every window blank, 
huddled along the road. Further on, within 
the zone of danger, nothing of human habita- 
tion remained except here and there a pile of 
frozen bricks or a blackened cellar choked 
with snow. 

For some time Trent had been annoyed by 
the man behind him who kept treading on his 
heels. Convinced at last that it was inten- 
tional he turned to remonstrate and found 
himself face to face with a fellow-student from 
the Beaux Arts. Trent stared. 

“ I thought you were in the hospital !” 

The other shook his head, pointing to his 
bandaged jaw. 


214 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ I see, you can’t speak. Can I do any* 
thing ?” 

The wounded man rummaged in his haver- 
sack and produced a crust of black bread. 

“ He can’t eat it, his jaw is smashed, and 
he wants you to chew it for him,” said the 
soldier next to him. 

Trent took the crust, and grinding it in his 
teeth, morsel by morsel, passed it back to the 
starving man. 

From time to time, mounted orderlies 
sped to the front covering them with slush. 
It was a chilly silent march through sod- 
den meadows wreathed in fog. Along the 
railroad embankment across the ditch, another 
column moved parallel to their own. Trent 
watched it, a sombre mass, now distinct, now 
vague, now blotted out in a puff of fog. Once 
for half an hour he lost it, but when again it 
came into view, he noticed a thin line detach 
itself from the flank, and, bellying in the mid- 
dle, swing rapidly to the west. At the same 
moment a prolonged crackling broke out in 
the fog in front. Other lines began to slough 
off from the column, swinging east and west, 
and the crackling became continuous. A 
battery passed at full gallop and he drew back 
with his comrades to give it way. It went into 
action a little to the right of his battalion, and 
as the shot from the first rifled piece boomed 
through the mist, the cannon from the fortifi- 
cations opened with a mighty roar. An offi- 
cer galloped by shouting something which 
Trent did not catch, but he saw the ranks in 
front suddenly part company with his own, 
and disappear in the twilight. More officers 
rode up and stood beside him peering into the 
fog. Away in front the crackling had become 
one prolonged crash. It was dreary waiting 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL . 215 

Trent chewed some bread for the man behind, 
who tried to swallow it, and after a while 
shook his head, motioning Trent to eat the 
rest himself. A corporal offered him a little 
brandy and he drank it, but when he turned 
around to return the flask, the corporal was 
lying on the ground. Alarmed, he looked at 
the soldier next to him, who shrugged his 
shoulders and opened his mouth to speak, 
but something struck him and he rolled over 
and over into the ditch below. At that mo- 
ment the horse of one of the officers gave a 
bound and backed into the battalion, lashing 
out with his heels. One man was ridden 
down ; another was kicked in the chest and 
hurled through the ranks. The officer sank 
his spurs into the horse and forced him to the 
front again, where he stood trembling. The 
cannonade seemed to draw nearer. A staff 
officer, riding slowly up and down the battal- 
ion suddenly collapsed in his saddle and clung 
to his horse’s mane. One of his boots dangled, 
crimsoned and dripping, from the stirrup. 
Then out of the mist in front, men came run- 
ning. The roads, the fields, the ditches were 
full of them, and many of them fell. For an 
instant he imagined he saw horsemen riding 
about like ghosts in the vapors beyond, and 
a man behind him cursed horribly, declaring 
he too had seen them and that they were 
Uhlans ; but the battalion stood inactive and 
the mist fell again over the meadows. 

The colonel sat heavily upon his horse, his 
bullet-shaped head buried in the astrakan 
collar of his dolman, his fat legs sticking 
straight out in the stirrups. 

The buglers clustered about him with 
bugles poised, and behind him a staff officer 


2I 6 the king in yellow \ 

in a pale blue jacket, smoked a cigarette and 
chatted with a captain of hussars. From the 
road in front came the sound of furious gal- 
loping and an orderly reined up beside the 
colonel, who motioned him to the rear with- 
out turning his head. Then on the left a con- 
fused murmur arose which ended in a shout. 
A hussar passed like the wind, followed by 
another and another, and then squadron after 
squadron whirled by them into the sheeted 
mists. At that instant the colonel reared in 
his saddle, the bugles clanged and the whole 
battalion scrambled down the embankment, 
over the ditch and started across the soggy 
meadow. Almost at once Trent lost his cap. 
Something snatched it from his head, he 
thought it was a tree branch. A good many 
of his comrades rolled over in the slush and 
ice, and he imagined that they had slipped. 
One pitched right across his path and he 
stopped to help him up, but the man screamed 
when he touched him and an officer shouted, 
“ forward, forward ! ” so he ran on again. 
It was a long jog through the mist, and he 
was often obliged to shift his rifle. When at 
last they lay panting behind the railroad em- 
bankment, he looked about him. He had felt 
the need of action, of a desperate physical 
struggle, of killing and crushing. He had 
been seized with a desire to fling himself 
among masses and tear right and left. He 
longed to fire, to use the thin sharp bayonet 
on his chasse-pot. He had not expected 
this. He wished to become exhausted, to 
struggle and cut until incapable of lifting his 
arm. Then he had intended to go home. He 
heard a man say that half the battalion had 
gone down in the charge, and he saw another 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 2I y 

examining a corpse under the embankment: 
The body, still warm, was clothed in a strange 
uniform, but even when he noticed the spiked 
helmet lying a few inches further away, he 
did not realize what had happened. 

The colonel sat on his horse a few feet to 
the left, his eyes sparkling under the crimson 
kgpi. Trent heard him reply to an officer: 
“ I can hold it, but another charge, and I 
won’t have enough men left to sound a bugle.” 

“Were the Prussians here ? ” Trent asked 
of a soldier who sat wiping the blood trickling 
from his hair. 

“Yes. The hussars cleaned them out. 
We caught their cross fire.” 

“We are supporting a battery on the em- 
bankment,” said another. 

Then the battalion crawled over the em- 
bankment and moved along the lines of twisted 
rails. Trent rolled up his trousers and tucked 
them into his woolen socks: but they halted 
again, and some of the men sat down on the 
dismantled railroad track. Trent looked for 
his wounded comrade from the Beaux Arts. 
He was standing in his place, very pale. The 
cannonade had become terrific. For a mo- 
ment the mist lifted. He caught a glimpse of 
the first battalion motionless on the railroad 
track in front, of regiments on either flank, 
and then, as the fog settled again, the drums 
beat and the music of the bugles began away 
on the extreme left. A restless movement 
passed among the troops, the colonel threw 
up his arm, the drums rolled, and the battalion 
moved off through the fog. They were near 
the front now, for the first battalion was firing 
as it advanced. Ambulances galloped along 
the base of the embankment to the rear, an4 


2 ! 8 THE KING IN YELLO IV. 

the hussars passed and repassed like phantoms. 
They were in the front at last, for all about 
them was movement and turmoil, while from 
the fog, close at hand, came cries and groans 
and crashing volleys. Shells fell everywhere, 
bursting along the embankment, splashing 
them with frozen slush. Trent was fright- 
ened. He began to dread the unknown, 
which lay there crackling and flaming in ob- 
scurity, The shock of the cannon sickened 
him. He could even see the fog light up with 
a dull orange as the thunder shook the earth. 
It was near, he felt certain, for the colonel 
shouted “ forward ! ” and the first battalion 
was hastening into it. He felt its breath, he 
trembled, but hurried on. A fearful discharge 
in front terrified him. Somewhere in the fog 
men were cheering, and the colonel’s horse, 
streaming with blood plunged about in the 
smoke. 

Another blast and shock, right in his face, 
almobC stunned him, and he faltered. All the 
men to the right were down. His head 
swam ; the fog and smoke stupefied him. He 
put out his hand for a support and caught 
something. It was the wheel of a gun carri- 
age, and a man sprang from behind it, aiming 
a blow at his head with a rammer, but 
stumbled back shrieking with a bayonet 
through his neck, and Trent knew that he had 
killed. Mechanically he stooped to pick up his 
rifle, but the bayonet was still in the man who 
lay, beating with red hands against the sod. 
It sickened him and he leaned on the cannon. 
Men were fighting all around him now and 
the air was foul with smoke and sweat. Some- 
body seized him from behind and another in 
front, but others in turn seized them or struck 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 2 ig 

them solid blows. The click ! click ! click ! 
of bayonets infuriated him, and he grasped 
the rammer and struck out blindly until it was 
shivered to pieces. 

A man threw his arm around his neck and 
bore him to the ground, but he throttled him 
and raised himself on his knees. He saw a 
comrade seize the cannon, and fall across it 
with his skull crushed in ; he saw the colonel 
tumble clean out of his saddle into the mud ; 
then consciousness fled. 

When he came to himself, he was lying on 
the embankment among the twisted rails. 
On every side huddled men who cried out and 
cursed and fled away into the fog, and he 
staggered to his feet and followed them. 
Once he stopped to help a comrade with a 
bandaged jaw, who could not speak but clung 
to his arm for a time and then fell dead in the 
freezing mire ; and again he aided another, 
who groaned; “Trent c’est moi — Philippe” 
until a sudden volley in the mist relieved him 
of his charge. 

An icy wind swept down from the heights, 
cutting the fog into shreds. For an instant, 
with an evil leer the sun peered through the 
naked woods of Vincennes, sank like a blood 
clot in the battery smoke, lower, lower into the 
blood-soaked plain. 


220 


THE KING IN YELLOW . 


IV. 

midnight sounded from the 
t of St. Sulpice the gates of Paris 
still choked with fragments of 
lat had once been an army. 

They entered with the night, a sullen horde, 
spauered with slime, faint with hunger and 
exhaustion. There was little disorder at first 
and the throng at the gates parted silently as 
the troops tramped along the freezing streets. 
Confusion came as the hours passed. Swiftly 
and more swiftly, crowding squadron after 
squadron and battery on battery, horses plung- 
ing and caissons jolting, the remnants from 
the front surged through the gates, a chaos of 
cavalry and artillery struggling for the right 
of way. Close upon them stumbled the in- 
fantry ; here a skeleton of a regiment march- 
ing with a desperate attempt at order, there a 
riotous mob of Mobiles crushing their way to 
the streets, then a turmoil of horsemen, 
cannon, troops without officers, officers with- 
out men, then again a line of ambulances, the 
wheels groaning under their heavy loads. 

Dumb with misery the crowd looked on. 

All through the day the ambulances had 
been arriving, and all day long the ragged 
throng whimpered and shivered by the bar- 
riers. At noon the crowd was increased ten- 
fold, filling the squares about the gates, and 
swarming over the inner fortifications. 

At four o’clock in the afternoon the Ger- 
man batteries suddenly wreathed themselves 



HEN 
belfr 
were 
of w 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL . 221 

in smoke and the shells fell fast on Mont- 
parnasse. At twenty minutes after four two 
projectiles struck a house in the rue de Bac, 
and a moment later the first shell fell in 
the Latin Quarter. 

Braith was painting in bed when West came 
in very much scared. 

“ I wish you would come down ; our house 
has been knocked into a cocked hat, and 
I'm afraid that some of the pillagers may 
take it into their heads to pay us a visit to- 
night.” 

Braith jumped out of bed and bundled him- 
self into a garment which had once been an 
overcoat. 

“ Anybody hurt ? ” he inquired, struggling 
with a sleeve full of dilapidated lining. 

“ No. Colette is barricaded in the cellar, 
and the concierge ran away to the fortifi- 
cations. There will be a rough gang there 
if the bombardment keeps up. You might 
help us ” 

“ Of course,” said Braith * but it was not 
until they had reached the rue Serpente and 
had turned in the passage which led to West’s 
cellar, that tjie latter cried : “ have you seen 
Jack Trent to-day ? ” 

“ No,” replied Braith looking troubled, “ he' 
was not at Ambulance Headquarters.” 

“ He stayed to take care of Sylvia, I sup- 
pose.” 

A bomb came crashing through the roof of 
a house at the end of the alley and burst in 
the basement, showering the street with slate 
and plaster. A second struck a chimney and 
plunged into the garden, followed by an 
avalanche of bricks, and another exploded 
with a deafening report in the next street. 


222 


THE KING IN' YELLOW. 


They hurried along the passage to the steps 
which led to the cellar. Here again Braith 
stopped. 

“ Don’t you think I had better run up to see 
if Jack and Sylvia are well intrenched ? I can 
get back before dark.” 

“ No. Go in and find Colette and I’ll go.” 

“ No, no, let me go, there’s no danger.” 

“I know it,” replied West calmly; and 
dragging Braith into the alley pointed to the 
cellar steps. The iron door was barred. 

“Colette! Colette! ” he called. The door 
swung inward, and the girl sprang up the 
steps to meet them. At that instant, Braith, 
glancing behind him, gave a startled cry, and 
pushing the two before him into the cellar 
jumped down after them and slammed the 
iron door. A few seconds later a heavy jar 
from the outside shook the hinges. 

“ They are here,” muttered West, very 
pale. 

“ That door,” observed Colette calmly, “ will 
hold forever.” 

Braith examined the low iron structure, now 
trembling with the blows rained on it from 
without. West glanced anxiously at Colette 
who displayed no agitation, and this com- 
forted him. 

“ I don’t believe they will spend much time 
here,” said Braith; “ they only rummage in 
cellars for spirits, I imagine.” 

“ Unless they hear that valuables are buried 
there.” 

“ But surely nothing is buried here ? ” ex- 
claimed Braith uneasily. 

“ Unfortunately there is,” growled West. 
“ That miserly landlord of mine — ” 

A crash from the outside followed by a yell 


THE STREET OE THE FIRST SHELL . 223 

cut him short ; then blow after blow shook 
the doors until there came a sharp snap, a 
clinking of metal, and a triangular bit of iron 
fell inwards leaving a hole through which 
struggled a ray of light. 

Instantly West knelt, and shoving his re- 
volver through the aperture fired every car- 
tridge. For a moment the alley resounded 
with the racket of the revolver, then absolute 
silence followed. 

Presently a single questioning blow fell upon 
the door, and a moment later another and an- 
other, and then a sudden crack zigzagged 
across the iron plate. 

“ Here,” said West, seizing Colette by the 
wrist, “ you follow, me, Braith ! ” and he ran 
swiftly toward a circular spot of light at the 
further end of the cellar. The spot of light 
came from a barred man-hole above. West 
motioned Braith to mount on his shoulders, 

“ Push it over. You must ! ” 

With little effort Braith lifted the barred 
cover, scrambled out on his stomach, and 
easily raised Colette from Wests shoulders. 

“ Quick, old chap ! ” cried the latter. 

Braith twisted his legs around a fence chain 
and leaned down again. The cellar was 
flooded with a yellow light and the air reeked 
with the stench of petroleum torches. The 
iron door still held, but a whole plate of metal 
was gone, and now as they looked a figure 
came creeping through holding a torch. 

“ Quick ! ” whispered Braith, “ Jump ! ” and 
West hung dangling until Colette grasped him 
by the collar and he was dragged out. Then 
her nerves gave way and she wept hyster- 
ically, but West threw his arm around her 
and led her across the gardens into the next 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


224 

street, where Braith, after replacing the man- 
hole cover and piling some stone slabs from 
the wall over it, rejoined them. It was 
almost dark. They hurried through the 
street now only lighted by burning buildings or 
the swift glare of the shells. They gave wide 
berth to the fires, but at a distance saw the 
flitting forms of pillagers among the ddbris. 
Sometimes they passed a female fury crazed 
with drink shrieking anathemas upon the 
world, or some slouching lout whose black- 
ened face and hands betrayed his share in 
the work of destruction. At last they reached 
the Seine and passed the bridge, and then 
Braith said : “ I must go back. I am not 
sure of Jack and Sylvia.” As he spoke, he 
made way for a crowd which came trampling 
across the bridge, and along the river wall by 
the d’Orsay barracks. In the midst of it 
West caught the measured tread of a platoon. 
A lantern passed, a file of bayonets, then an- 
other lantern which glimmered on a deathly 
face behind, and Colette gasped, “ Hart- 
man ! ” and he was gone. They peered 
fearfully across the embankment, holding 
their breath. There was a shuffle of feet on 
the quay and the gate of the barracks slammed. 
A lantern shone for a moment at the postern, 
the crowd pressed to the grille, then came 
the clang of the volley from the stone 
parade. 

One by one the petroleum torches flared up 
along the embankment, and now the whole 
square was in motion. Down from the 
Champs Elysges an'd across the Place de la 
Concorde, straggled the fragments of the 
battle, a company here, and a mob there. 
They poured in from every street followed by 


THE STREET OF THE FIRST SHELL. 225 

women and children, and a great murmur, 
borne on the icy wind, swept through the 
Arc de Triomphe and down the dark avenue, 
— “ Perdus ! perdus ! ” 

A ragged end of a battalion was pressing 
past, the spectre of annihilation. West 
groaned. Then a figure sprang from the 
shadowy ranks and called West’s name, and 
when he saw it was Trent he cried out. 
Trent seized him, white with terror. 

“ Sylvia ? ” 

West stared speechless, but Colette moaned 
“ Oh, Sylvia ! Sylvia ! — and they are shelling 
the Quarter ! ” 

“ Trent ! ” shouted Braith ; but he was 
gone, and they could not overtake him. 

The bombardment ceased as Trent crossed 
the Boulevard’ St. Germain, but the entrance 
to the rue de Seine was blocked by a heap of 
smoking bricks. Everywhere the shells had 
torn great holes in the pavement. The ca fe 
was a wreck of splinters and glass, the book- 
store tottered, ripped from roof to basement, 
and the little bakery, long since closed, bulged 
outward above a mass of slate and tin. 

He climbed over the steaming bricks and 
hurried into the rue de Tournon. On the 
corner a fire blazed, lighting up his own 
street, and on the blank wall, beneath a 
shattered gas lamp, a child was writing with 
a bit of cinder, 

“ Here Fell the First Shell.” 

The letters stared him in the face. The 
rat-killer finished and stepped back to view 
his work, but catching sight of Trent’s 
bayonet, screamed and fled, and as Trent 


22 6 TnE KING in yellow. 

staggered across the shattered street, from 
holes and crannies in the ruins fierce women 
fled from their work of pillage, cursing him. 

At first he could not find his house, for the 
tears blinded him, but he felt along the wall 
and reached the door. A lantern burned in 
the concierge’s lodge and the old man lay 
dead beside it. Faint with fright he leaned 
a moment on his rifle, then, snatching the 
lantern, sprang up the stairs. He tried to 
call, but his tongue hardly moved. On the 
second floor he saw plaster on the stairway, 
and on the third the floor was torn and the 
concierge lay in a pool of blood across the 
landing. The next floor was his, theirs. The 
door hung from its hinges, the walls gaped. 
He crept in and sank down by the bed, and 
there two arms were flung around his neck, 
and a tear-stained face sought his own. 

“ Sylvia ! ” 

“ O Jack ! Jack ! Jack ! " 

From the tumbled pillow beside them a 
child wailed. 

“ They brought it ; it is mine,” she sobbed. 

“ Ours,” he whispered, with his arms around 
them both. 

Then from the stairs below came Braith’s 
anxious voice. 

“ Trent ! Is all well ? ” 


THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE 
FIELDS. 

* v Et tous les jours passes dans la tristesse 
Nous sont comptds comme des jours heureux I ” 







THE STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE 
FIELDS. 


HE street is not fashionable, neither 
is it shabby. It is a pariah among 
streets — a street without a Quarter. 
It is generally understood to lie 
outside the pale of the aristocratic Avenue 
de l’Observatoire. The students of the 
Montparnasse Quarter consider it swell and 
will have none of it. The Latin Quarter, from 
the Luxembourg, its northern frontier, sneers 
at its respectability and regards with disfavor 
the correctly-costumed students who haunt it. 
Few strangers go into it. At times, however, 
the Latin Quarter students use it as a thorough- 
fare between the rue de Rennes and the Bullier, 
but except for that and the weekly afternoon 
visits of parents and guardians to the Convent 
near the rue Vavin, the street of Our Lady of 
the Fields is as quiet as a Passy boulevard. 
Perhaps the most respectable portion lies be- 
tween the rue de la Grande Chaumi£re and 
the rue Vavin, at least this was the conclusion 
arrived at by the Reverend Joel Byram, as he 
rambled through it with Hastings in charge. 
To Hastings the street looked pleasant in 
the bright June weather, and he had begun to 
hope for its selection when the Reverend 
Byram shied violently at the cross on the 
Convent opposite. 



230 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ Jesuits,” he muttered. 

“Well,” said Hastings wearily, “I imagine 
we won’t find anything better. You say your- 
self that vice is triumphant in Paris, and it 
seems to me that in every street we find Jes- 
uits or something worse.” 

After a moment he repeated, “ Or something 
worse, which of course I would not notice 
except for your kindness in warning me.” 

Dr. Byram sucked in his lips and looked 
about him. He was impressed by the evident 
respectability of the surroundings. Then, 
frowning at the Convent he took Hastings’ 
arm and shuffled across the street to an iron 
gateway which bore the number 201 bis 
painted in white on a blue ground. Below 
this was a notice printed in English : 

1. For Porter please oppress once. 

2. For Servant please oppress twice. 

3. For Parlor please oppress thrice. 

Hastings touched the electric button three 
times and they were ushered through the 
garden and into the parlor by a trim maid. 
The dining-room door, just beyond, was open, 
and from the table in plain view, a stout 
woman hastily arose and came toward them. 
Hastings caught a glimpse of a young man 
with a big head and several snuffy old gentle- 
men at breakfast, before the door closed and 
the stout woman waddled into the room, bring- 
ing with her an aroma of coffee and a black 
poodle. 

“ It ees a plaisir to you receive ! ” she cried ; 
“ Monsieur is Anglish ? No ? Americain ? Off 
course. My pension it ees for Americains 
surtout. Here all spik Angleesh, c’est cl dire, 
ze personelle ; ze sairv&nts dip §pik, plus on 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 23 1 

moins, a little. I am happy to have you 
comme pensionaires ” 

“ Madame,” began Dr. Byram, but was cut 
short again. 

“ Ah, yess, I know, ah ! mon Dieu ! you 
do not spik Frainch but you have come to 
lairne ! My husband does spik Frainch wiss 
ze pensionaires. We have at ze moment a 
family Americaine who learn of my husband 
F rainch ” 

Here the poodle growled at Dr. Byram and 
was promptly cuffed by his mistress. 

“ Veux tu ! ” she cri^d, with a slap, “ veux 
tu ! Oh ! le vilain, oh ! le vilain ! ” 

“ Mais, Madame,” said Hastings smiling, 
“ il n’a pas l’air tres feroce.” 

The poodle fled and his mistress cried, “ Ah, 
ze accent charming ! He does spik already 
Frainch like a Parisien young gentleman ! ” 

Then Dr. Byram managed to get in a word 
or two and gathered more or less information 
in regard to prices. 

“ It ees a pension serieux ; my clientelle ees 
of ze best, indeed a pension de famille where 
one ees at ’ome." 

Then they went upstairs to examine Hast- 
ings’ future quarters, test the bed-springs and 
arrange for the weekly towel allowance. Dr. 
Byram appeared satisfied. 

Madame Marotte accompanied them to the 
door and rang for the maid, but as Hastings 
stepped out into the gravel walk, his guide 
and mentor paused a moment and fixed 
Madame with his watery eyes. 

“You understand,” he said, “that he is a 
youth of most careful bringing up, and his 
character and morals are without a stain. 
He is young and has never been abroad. 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


232 

never even seen a large city, and his parents 
have requested me, as an old family friend liv- 
ing in Paris, to see that he is placed under 
good influences. He is to study art, but on 
no account would his parents wish him to live 
in the Latin Quarter if they knew of the im- 
morality which is rife there.” 

A sound like the click of a latch interrupted 
him and he raised his eyes, but not in time to 
see the maid slap the big-headed young man 
behind the parlor-door. 

Madame coughed, cast a deadly glance be- 
hind her and then beamed on Dr. Byram. 

“ It ees well zat he come here. The pension 
more serious, il n’en existe pas, eet ees not 
any ! ” she announced with conviction. 

So, as there was nothing more to add, Dr. 
Byram joined Hastings at the gate. 

“ I trust,” he said, eyeing the Convent, 
“ that you will make no acquaintances among 
Jesuits ! ” 

Hastings looked at the Convent until a 
pretty girl passed before the gray fagade, and 
then he looked at her. A young fellow with 
a paint-box and canvas came swinging along, 
stopped before the pretty girl, said something 
during a brief but vigorous handshake at 
which they both laughed, and he went his way, 
calling back, “ A demain Valentine ! ” as in 
the same breath she cried, “ A demain ! ” 

“Valentine,” thought Hastings, “what a 
quaint name ; ” and he started to follow the 
Reverend Joel Byram who was shuffling to- 
ward the nearest tramway station. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 


233 


II. 



N* you are pleas wiz Paris, Mon- 
sieur, ’Astang ? ” demanded Ma- 
dame Marotte the next morning as 
IS Hastings came into the breakfast- 
room of the pension, rosy from his plunge in 
the limited bath above. 

“I am sure I shall like it,” he replied, 
wondering at his own depression of spirits. 

The maid brought him coffee, And 
rolls. He returned the vacant glance of the 
big-headed young man and acknowledged 
diffidently the salutes of the snuffy old gentle- 
men. He did not try to finish his coffee and 
sat crumbling, a roll, unconscious of the sym- 
pathetic glances of Madame Marotte who had 
tact enough not to bother him. 

Presently a maid entered with a tray on 
which was balanced two bowls of chocolate, 
and the snuffy old gentlemen leered at hei 
ankles. The maid deposited the chocolate at 
a table near the window and smiled at Hast- 
ings. Then a thin young lady, followed by her 
counterpart in all except years, marched into 
the room and took the table near the window. 
They were evidently American, but Hastings, 
if he expected any sign of recognition, was 
disappointed. To be ignored by compatriots 
intensified his depression. He fumbled with 
his knife and looked at his plate. 

The thin young lady was talkative enough. 
She was quite aware of Hastings’ presence, 
ready to be flattered if he looked at her, but 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


234 

on the other hand she felt her superiority for 
she had been three weeks in Paris and he, it 
was easy to see, had not yet unpacked his 
steamer-trunk. 

Her conversation was complacent. She 
argued with her mother upon the relative 
merits of the Louvre and the Bon Marche but 
her mother’s part of the discussion was mostly 
confined to the observation, “ Why, Susie ! ” 

The snuffy old gentlemen had left the room 
in a body, outwardly polite and inwardly 
raging. They could not endure the Amer- 
icans, who filled the room with their chatter. 

The big-headed young man looked after 
them with a knowing cough, murmuring, 
« Gay old birds ! ” 

“They look like bad old men, Mr. Bladen, ” 
said the girl. 

To this Mr. Bladen smiled and said, 
“They’ve had their day,” in a tone which im- 
plied that he was now having his. 

“ And that’s why they all have baggy eyes,” 
cried the girl. “ I think it’s a shame for young 
gentlemen ” * 

“ Why, Susie,” said the mother, and the con- 
versation lagged. 

After a while Mr. Bladen threw down the 
“Petit Journal,” which he daily studied at the 
expense of the house, and turning to Hastings 
started to make himself agreeable. He be- 
gan by saying, “ I see you are an American.” 

To this brilliant and original opening, Hast- 
ings, deadly homesick, replied gratefully, and 
the conversation was judiciously nourished 
by observations from Miss Susie Byng dis- 
tinctly addressed to Mr. Bladen. In the course 
of events Miss Susie, forgetting to address 
herself exclusively to Mr. Bladen, and Hast- 


STREET OE OUR LADY OE THE EIELDS. 235 

ings replying to her general question, the 
entente cordiale was established, and Susie 
and her mother extended a protectorate over 
what was clearly neutral territory. 

“ Mr. Hastings, you must not desert the 
pension every evening as Mr. Bladen does. 
Paris is an awful place for young gentlemen, 
and Mr. Bladen is a horrid cynic.” 

Mr. Bladen looked gratified. 

Hastings answered, “ I shall be at the 
studio all day, and I imagine I shall be glad 
enough to come back at night.” 

Mr. Bladen, who, at a salary of fifteen dol- 
lars a week, acted as agent for the Pewly 
Manufacturing Company of Troy, N. Y., 
smiled a skeptical smile and withdrew to 
keep an appointment with a customer on the 
Boulevard Magenta. 

Hastings walked into the garden with Mrs. 
Byng and Susie, and, at their invitation, sat 
down in the shade before the iron gate. 

The chestnut trees still bore their fragrant 
spikes of pink and white and the bees hummed 
among the roses, trellised on the white-walled 
house. 

A faint freshness was in the air. The 
watering carts moved up and down the street, 
and a clear stream bubbled over the spotless 
gutters of the rue de la Grande Chaumi£re. 
The sparrows were merry along the curb- 
stones, taking bath after bath in the water 
and ruffling their feathers with delight. In 
a walled garden across the street a pair of 
blackbirds whistled among the almond trees. 

Hastings swallowed the lump in his throat, 
for the song of the birds and the ripple of 
water in a Paris gutter brought back to him 
the sunny meadows of Millbrook. 


2,6 THE KING IN YELLOW. 

“That’s a blackbird,” observed Miss Byng ; 
“ see him there on the bush with pink blos- 
soms. He’s all black except his bill, and that 
looks as if it had been dipped in an omelet, 
as some Frenchman says ” 

“ Why, Susie ! ” said Mrs. Byng. 

“ That garden belongs to a studio inhabited 
by two Americans,” continued the girl ser- 
enely, “ and I often see them pass. They 
seem to need a great many models, mostly 
young and feminine ” 

“ Why, Susie ! ” 

“ Perhaps they prefer painting that kind, but 
I don’t see why they should invite five, with 
three more young gentlemen, and all get into 
two cabs and drive away singing. This street,” 
she continued, “ is dull. There is nothing to 
see except the garden and a glimpse of the 
Boulevard Montparnasse through the rue de 
la Grande Chaumi6re. No one ever passes 
except a policeman. There is a convent on 
the corner.” 

“ I thought it was a Jesuit College,” began 
Hastings, but was at once overwhelmed with 
a Baedecker description of the place, ending 
with, “ on one side stand the palatial hotels of 
Jean Paul Laurens and Guillaume Bougereau, 
and opposite, in the little Passage Stanislas, 
Carolus Duran paints the masterpieces which 
charm the world.” 

The blackbird bprst into a ripple of golden 
throaty notes, and from some distant green 
spot in the city, an unknown wild-bird an- 
swered with a frenzy of liquid trills until the 
sparrows paused in their ablutions to look up 
with restless chirps. 

Then a butterfly came and sat on a cluster 
of heliotrope and waved his crimson-banded 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS . 237 

wings in the hot sunshine. Hastings knew 
him for a friend and before his eyes there 
came a vision of tall mullins and scented 
milkweed alive with painted wings, a vision 
of a white house and woodbine-covered piazza, 
— a glimpse of a man reading and a woman 
leaning over the pansy bed, — and his heart 
was full. He was startled a moment later by 
Miss Byng. 

“ I believe you are homesick ! ” Hastings 
blushed. Miss Byng looked at him with a 
sympathetic sigh and continued : “When- 
ever I felt homesick at first I used to go with 
mamma and walk in the Luxembourg Gar- 
dens. I don’t know why it is but those old- 
fashioned gardens seem to bring me nearer 
home than anything in this artificial city.” 

“ But they are full of marble statues,” said 
Mrs. Byng mildly, “ I don’t see the resem- 
blance myself.” 

“ Where is the Luxembourg ? ” inquired 
Hastings after a silence. 

“ Come with me to the gate,” said Miss 
Byng. He rose and followed her, and she 
pointed out the rue Vavin at the foot of the 
street. 

“ You pass by the convent to the right / 9 
she smiled ; and Hastings went. 


238 


THE KING IN YELLOW’. 


III. 

Luxembourg was a blaze of flow* 

He walked slowly through the 
1 g avenues of trees, past mossy 
marbles and old-time columns, and threading 
the grove by the bronze lion, came upon the 
tree-crowned terrace above the fountain. Be- 
low lay the basin shining in the sunlight. 
Flowering almonds encircled the terrace and 
in a greater spiral, groves of chestnuts wound 
in and out and down among the moist thickets 
by the western palace wing. At one end of 
the avenue of trees, the Observatory rose, its 
white domes piled up like an eastern mosque ; 
at the other end stood the heavy palace, with 
every window-pane ablaze in the fierce sun of 
June. 

Around the fountain, children and white- 
capped nurses armed with bamboo poles, 
were pushing toy boats, whose sails hung 
limp in the sunshine. A park policeman, 
wearing red epaulettes and a dress sword, 
watched them for a while and then went away 
to remonstrate with a young man who had 
unchained his dog. The dog was pleasantly 
occupied in rubbing grass and dirt into his 
back while his legs waved in the air. 

The policeman pointed at the dog. He 
was speechless with indignation. 

“Well Captain,” smiled the young fellow. 

“ Well, Monsieur Student,” growled the 
policeman. 



STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS . ^9 

“ What do you come and complain to me 
for ? ” 

“ If you don't chain him I’ll take him,” 
shouted the policeman. 

“ What’s that to me, mon capitaine ? ” 

“ Wha — t ! Isn’t that bull-dog yours ? ” 

“ If it was, don’t you suppose I’d chain 
him ? ” 

The officer glared for a moment in silence, 
then deciding that as he was a student he 
was wicked, grabbed at the dog who promptly 
dodged. Around and around the flower-beds 
they raced, and when the officer came too 
near for comfort, the bull-dog cut across a 
flower-bed which perhaps was not playing fair. 

The young man was amused, and the dog 
also seemed to enjoy the exercise. 

The policeman noticed this and decided to 
strike at the fountain-head of the evil. He 
stormed up to the student and said, “ As the 
owner of this public nuisance I arrest you ! ” 

“ But,” objected the other, “ I disclaim the 
dog.” 

That was a poser. It was useless to at- 
tempt to catch the dog until three gardeners 
lent a hand, but then the dog simply ran away 
and disappeared in the rue de Medici. 

The policeman shambled off to find conso- 
lation among the white-capped nurses, and 
the student, looking at his watch, stood up 
yawning. Then catching sight of Hastings, 
he smiled and bowed. Hastings walked over 
to the marble, laughing. 

“ Why, Clifford,” he said, “ I didn’t recognize 
you.” 

“ It’s my moustache,” sighed the other. “ I 
sacrificed it to humor a whim of — of — a friend. 
“ What do you think of my dog ? ” 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


24O 

“Then he is yours ? ” cried Hastings. 

“ Of course. It’s a pleasant change for 
him, this playing tag with policemen, but he 
is known now and I’ll have to stop it. He’s 
gone home. He always does when the gar- 
deners take a hand. It’s a pity ; he’s fond of 
rolling on lawns.” Then they chatted for 
a moment of Hastings’ prospects, and Clifford 
politely offered to stand his sponsor at the 
studio. 

“You see, old tabby, I mean Dr. Byram 
told me about you before I met you,” explained 
Clifford, “ and Elliott and I will be glad to do 
angthing we can.” Then looking at his watch 
again he muttered, “ I have just ten minutes 
to catch the Versailles train ; au revoir,” and 
started to go, but catching sight of a 
advancing by the fountain took off his 
with a confused smile.” 

“Why are you not at Versailles?” 
said, with an almost imperceptible acknowl- 
edgment of Hastings’ presence. 

“I — I’m going,” murmured Clifford. 

For a moment they faced each other, and 
then Clifford, very red, stammered, “ With 
your permission I have the honor of present- 
ing to you my friend Monsieur Hastings.” 

Hastings bowed low. She smiled very 
sweetly, but there was something of malice in 
the quiet inclination of her small Parisienne 
head. 

“ I could have wished,” she said, “ that Mon- 
sieur Clifford might spare me more time when 
he brings with him so charming an Ameri- 
can.” 

“ Must — must I go, Valentine ? ” began 
Clifford. 

“Certainly,” she replied. 


girl 

hat 

she 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 ^j 

Clifford took his leave with very bad grace, 
wincing, when she added, “ And give my dear- 
est love to C^cile ! ” As he disappeared in 
the rue d’Assas, the girl turned as if to go, 
but then suddenly remembering Hastings, 
looked at him and shook her head. 

“ Monsieur Clifford is so perfectly hair- 
brained,” she smiled, “ it is embarrassing 
sometimes. You have heard, of course, all 
about his success at the Salon ? ” 

He looked puzzled and she noticed it. 

“ You have been to the Salon of course ? ” 

“ Why no,” he answered, “ I only arrived 
in Paris three days ago.” 

She seemed to pay little heed to his explan- 
ation, but continued: “ Nobody imagined he 
had the energy to do anything good, but on 
varnishing day, the Salon was astonished by 
the entrance of Monsieur Clifford, who strolled 
about as bland as you please with an orchid 
in his buttonhole, and a beautiful picture on 
the line.” 

She smiled to herself at the reminiscence, 
and looked at the fountain. 

“Monsieur Bouguereau told me that Mon- 
sieur Julian was so astonished that he only 
shook hands with Monsieur Clifford in a dazed 
manner, and actually forgot to pat him on the 
back! Fancy,” she continued with much 
merriment, “ fancy papa Julian forgetting to 
pat one on the back.” 

Hastings, wondering at her acquaintance 
with the great Bouguereau, looked at her 
with respect. “ May I ask,” he said diffi- 
dently, “ whether you are a pupil of Monsieur 
Bouguereau ? ” 

“ I,” she said in some surprise. Then she 
looked at him curiously. Was he permitting 

16 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


242 

himself the liberty of joking on such short 
acquaintance ? 

His pleasant serious face questioned hers. 

“ Tiens,” she thought, “ what a droll man.” 

“ You surely study art ? ” he said. 

She leaned back on the crooked stick of her 
parasol, and looked at him. “ Why do you 
think so ? ” 

“ Because you speak as if you did.” 

“You are making fun of me,” she said, 
“ and it is not good taste.” 

She stopped confused, as he colored to the 
roots of his hair. 

“ How long have you been in Paris ? ” she 
said at length. 

“ Three days,” he replied gravely. 

“ But — but — surely you are not a nouveau ! 
You speak French too well ! ” 

Then after a pause, “ Really are you a nou- 
veau ? ” 

“ I am,” he said. 

She sat down on the marble bench lately 
occupied by Clifford, and tilting her parasol 
over her small head looked at him. 

“ I don’t believe it.” 

He felt the compliment, and for a moment 
hesitated to declare himself one of the despised. 
Then mustering up his courage, he told her 
how new and green he was, and all with a 
frankness which made her blue eyes open very 
wide and her lips part in the sweetest of 
smiles. 

“ You have never seen a studio ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Nor a model ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ How funny,” she said solemnly. Then 
they both laughed. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 243 

“ And you,” he said, “ have seen studios ? ” 

“ Hundreds.” 

“ And models ? ” 

«« Millions.” 

“ And you know Bougereau ? ” 

“ Yes, and Henner, and Constant and Lau- 
rens, and Puvis de Chavannes and Dagnan and 
Courtois and — and all the rest of them ! ” 

“ And yet you say you are not an artist.” 

“ Pardon,” she said gravely, “ did I say I 
was not ? ” 

“ Won’t you tell me ? ” he hesitated. 

At first she looked at him, shaking her head 
and smiling, then of a sudden her eyes fell and 
she began tracing figures with her parasol in the 
gravel at her feet. Hastings had taken a place 
on the seat and now, with his elbows on his 
knees, sat watching the spray drifting above 
the fountain jet. A small boy dressed as a 
sailor, stood poking his yacht and crying, “ I 
won’t go home ! I won’t go home ! ” His nurse 
raised her hands to Heaven. 

“Just like a little American boy, ” thought 
Hastings, and a pang of homesickness shot 
through him. 

Presently the nurse captured the boat and 
the small boy stood at bay. 

“ Monsieur Ren£, when you decide to come 
here you may have your boat.” 

The boy backed away scowling. 

“Give me my boat I say,” he cried, “and 
don’t call me Reng, for my name’s Randall and 
you know it ! ” 

“ Hello ! ” said Hastings, — “ Randall ? — 
that’s English.” 

“ I am American,” announced the boy in 
perfectly good English, turning to look at 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


244 

Hastings, “ and she’s such a fool she calls me 
Ren6 because mamma calls me Ranny ” 

Here he dodged the exasperated nurse and 
took up his station behind Hastings, who 
laughed, and catching him around the waist 
lifted him into his lap. 

“ One of my countrymen,” he said to the 
girl beside him. He smiled while he spoke, 
but there was a queer feeling in his throat. 

“ Don’t you see the stars and stripes on my 
yacht ? ” demanded Randall. Sure enough, 
the American colors hung limply under the 
nurse’s arm. 

“ Oh,” cried the girl, “ he is charming,” and 
impulsively stooped to kiss him, but the infant 
Randall wriggled out of Hastings’ arms and 
his nurse pounced upon him with an angry 
glance at the girl. 

She reddened and then bit her lips as the 
nurse, with eyes still fixed on her, draggedthe 
child away and ostentatiously wiped his lips 
with her handkerchief. 

Then she stole a look at Hastings and bit 
her lip again. 

“ What an ill-tempered woman,” he said. 
“ In America, most nurses are flattered when 
people kiss their children.” 

For an instant she tipped the parsol to hide 
her face, then closed it with a snap and looked 
at him definatly. 

“ Do you think it strange that she objected ? ” 

** Why not ? ” he said in surprise. 

Again she looked at him with quick search- 
ing eyes. 

His eyes were clear and bright and he 
smiled back, repeating, “ Why not ? ” 

“ You are droll,” she murmured bending 
her head. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 245 

“ Why ? ” 

But she made no answer, and sat silent, 
tracing curves and circles in the dust with her 
parasol. After a while he said — “ I am glad 
to see that young people have so much liberty 
here. I understood that the F rench were not 
at all like us. You know in America — or at 
least where I live in Millbrook, girls have every 
liberty, — go out alone and receive their friends 
alone, and I was afraid I should miss it here. 
But I see how it is now, and I am glad I was 
mistaken.” 

She raised her eyes to his and kept them 
there. 

He continued pleasantly — “ Since I have sat 
here I have seen a lot of pretty girls walking 
alone on the terrace there, — and then you are 
alone too. Tell me, for I do not know French 
customs, — do you have the liberty of going to 
the theatre without a chaperone ? ” 

For a long time she studied his face, and 
then with a trembling smile said, “ Why do 
you ask me ? ” 

“ Because you must know, of course,” he said 
gaily. 

“ Yes,” she replied indifferently, “ I know.” 

He waited for an answer, but getting none, 
decided that perhaps she had misunderstood 
him. 

“ I hope you don’t think I mean to presume 
on our short acquaintance,” he began, — “ in 
fact it is very odd but I don’t know your name. 
When Mr. Clifford presented me he only 
mentioned mine. Is that the custom in 
France ? ” 

“It is the custom in the Latin Quarter,” she 
said with a queer light in her eyes. Then 
suddenly she began talking almost feverishly.— 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


246 

“You must know, Monsieur Hastings, that 
we are all un peu sans g£ne here in the Latin 
Quarter. We are very Bohemian and etiquette 
and ceremony are out of place. It was for 
that Monsieur Clifford presented you to me 
with small ceremony, and left us together with 
less, — only for that, and I am his friend, and 
I have many friends in the Latin Quarter, and 
we all know each other very well — and I am 
not studying art but — but ” 

“ But what ? ” he said, bewildered. 

“I shall not tell you, — it is a secret,” she 
said with an uncertain smile. On both cheeks 
a pink spot was burning, and her eyes were 
very bright. 

Then in a moment her face fell. “ Do you 
know Monsieur Clifford very intimately ? ” 

“ Not very.” 

After a while she turned to him, grave and a 
little pale. 

“My name is Valentine — Valentine Tissot. 
Might — might I ask a service of you on such 
very short acquaintance ? ” 

“ Oh, ” he cried, “ I should be honored.” 

“ It is only this,” she said gently, “ it is not 
much. Promise me not to speak to Monsieur 
Clifford about me. Promise me that you will 
speak to no one about me.” 

“ I promise,” he said, greatly puzzled. 

She laughed nervously. “ I wish to remain 
a mystery. It is a caprice.” 

“ But,” he began, “ I had wished, I had 
hoped that you might give Monsieur Clifford 
permission to bring me, to present me at your 
house.” 

“ My — my house ! ” she repeated, 

“ I mean, where you live, in fact, to present 
me to your family.” 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 247 

The change in the girl’s face shocked him. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he cried, “ I have 
hurt you.” 

And as quick as a flash she understood 
him because she was a woman. 

“ My parents are dead,” she said. 

Presently he began again, very gently. 

“ Would it displease you if I beg you to re- 
ceive me ? Is it the custom ?” 

“ I cannot,” she answered. Then glancing 
up at him, “ I am sorry ; I should like to ; 
but believe me, I cannot.” 

He bowed seriously and looked vaguely 
uneasy. 

“ It isn’t because I don’t wish to. I — I like 
you ; you are very kind to me.” 

“ Kind ? ” he cried, surprised and puzzled. 

“ I like you,” she said slowly, “ and we will 
see each other sometimes if you will.” 

“ At friends’ houses ? ” 

“ No, not at friends’ houses.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ Here,” she said with defiant eyes. 

“ Why,” he cried, “ in Paris you are much 
more liberal in your views than we are.” 

She looked at him curiously. 

“ Yes, we are very Bohemian.” 

“I think it is charming,” he declared. 

“You see, we shall be in the best of so- 
ciety,” she ventured timidly, with a pretty 
gesture toward the statues of the dead queens, 
ranged in stately ranks above the terrace. 

He looked at her, delighted, and she bright- 
ened at the success of her innocent little pleas- 
antry. 

“ Indeed,” she smiled, “ I shall be well 
chaperoned, because you see we are under 
the protection of the gods themselves ; look, 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


248 

there are Apollo, and Juno, and Venus, on 
their pedestals,” counting them on her small 
gloved fingers, “ and Ceres, Hercules, and — 
but I can’t make out— — ” 

Hastings turned to look up at the winged 
god under whose shadow they were seated. 
“ Why, it’s Love,” he said. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 


249 


IV. 

lEREis a nouveau here,” drawled 
Laffat, leaning around his easel 
and addressing hisfriend Bowles, 
“ there is a nouveau here who 
is so tender and green and appetizing that 
Heaven help him if he should fall into a salad 
bowl.” 

“ Hayseed ? ” inquired Bowles, plastering in 
a background with a broken palette-knife and 
squinting at the effect with approval. 

“Yes, Squeedunk or Oshkosh, and how 
he ever grew up among the daisies and es- 
caped the cows, Heaven alone knows ! ” 

Bowles rubbed his thumb across the out- 
lines of his study to “ throw in a little atmos- 
phere,” as he said, glared at the model, pulled 
at his pipe and finding it out struck a match 
on his neighbor’s back to relight it. 

“ His name,” continued Laffat, hurling a bit 
of bread at the hat-rack, “ his name is Hast* 
ings. He is a berry. He knows no more 
about the world,” — and here Mr. Laffat ’s 
face spoke volumes for his own knowledge of 
that planet, — “ than a maiden cat on its first 
moonlight stroll.” 

Bowles now having succeeded in lighting 
his pipe, repeated the thumb touch on the 
other edge of the study and said “ Ah ! ” 

“ Yes,” continued his friend, “ and would 
you imagine it, he seems to think that every- 
thing here goes on as it does in his d d 

little backwoQds ranch at home ; talks about 



THE KING IN YELLOW . 


250 

the pretty girls who walk alone in the street; 
says how sensible it is ; and how French 
parents are misrepresented in America ; says 
that for his part he finds French girls, — and 
he confessed to only knowing one, — as jolly as 
American girls. I tried to set him right, tried 
to give him a pointer as to what sort of ladies 
walk about alone or with students, and he was 
either too stupid or too innocent to catch on. 
Then I gave it to him straight, and he said I 
was a vile-minded fool and marched off. 

“ Did you assist him with your shoe ? ” in- 
quired Bowles, languidly interested. 

“ Well, no.” 

“ He called you a vile-minded fool.” 

“ He was correct,” said Clifford from his 
easel in front. 

“ What — what do you mean ! ” demanded 
Laffat, turning red. 

“ That," replied Clifford. 

“ Who spoke to you ? Is this your bush 
ness ? ” sneered Bowles, but nearly lost his 
balance as Clifford swung about and eyed 
him. 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “ it’s my business.” 

No one spoke for some time. 

Then Clifford sang out, “ I say, Hastings ! ” 

And when Hastings left his easel and came 
around, he nodded toward the astonished 
laffat. 

“ This man has been disagreeable to you, 
and I want to tell you that any time you feel 
inclined to kick him, why I will hold the other 
creature.” 

Hastings, embarrassed, said, “Why no, 1 
don’t agree with his ideas, nothing more.” 

Clifford said “Naturally,” and slipping his 
arm through Hastings’, strolled about with 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 $l 

him, and introduced him to several of his own 
friends, at which all the nouveaux opened their 
eyes with envy, and the studio were given to 
understand that Hastings, although prepared 
to do menial work as the latest nouveau, was 
already within the charmed circle of the old, 
respected and feared, the truly great. 

The rest finished, the model resumed his 
place and work went on in a chorus of songs 
and yells and every ear-splitting noise which 
the art student utters when studying the beau, 
tiful. 

Five o’clock struck, — the model yawned, 
stretched and climbed into his trousers, and 
the noisy contents of six studios crowded 
through the hall and down into the street. 
Ten minutes later, Hastings found himself on 
top of a Montrouge tram and shortly after- 
ward was joined by Clifford. 

They climbed down at the rue Gay Lussac. 

“ I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “ I 
like the walk through the Luxembourg.” 

“By the way,” said Hastings, “ how can I 
call on you when I don’t know where you 
live ? ” 

“ V/hy, I live opposite you.” 

“ What — the studio in the garden where the 
almond trees are and the blackbirds ” 

“ Exactly,” said Clifford. “ I’m with my 
friend Elliott.” 

Hastings thought of the description of the 
two American artists which he had heard 
from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank. 

Clifford continued, “ Perhaps you had better 
let me know when you think of coming so, — 
so that I will be sure to — to be there,” he 
ended rather lamely. 

“ I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


252 

friends there,” said Hastings smiling, “Yo» 
know — my ideas are rather straight laced, — I 
suppose you would say, Puritanical. I 
shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to 
behave.” 

“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added 
with great cordiality, — “ I’m sure we’ll be 
friends although you may not approve of me 
and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby 
because — because, well they are like yourself, 
oid chap.” 

After a moment he continued, “ There is 
something I want to speak about. You see 
when I introduced you, last week, in the Lux- 
embourg, to Valentine ” 

“ Not a word ! ” cried Hastings, smiling, 
«* you must not tell me a word of her ! ” 

“Why ” 

“No — not a word !” he'said gaily, — “I in- 
sist, — promise me upon your honor you will 
not speak of her until I give you permission ; 
promise ! ” 

“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed. 

“ She is a charming girl, — we had such a 
delightful chat after you left, and I thank you 
for presenting me, but not another word about 
her until I give you permission.” 

“Oh,” murmured Clifford. 

“ Remember your promise,” he smiled, as 
he turned into his gateway. 

Clifford strolled across the street and trav- 
ersing the ivy-covered alley, entered his gar- 
den. 

He felt for his studio key, muttering, “ I 
wonder — I wonder, — but of course he doesn’t ! ” 

He entered the hallway, and fitting the key 
into the door, stood staring at the two cards 
tacked over the panels. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OP THE FIELDS. 2 C7 


FOXHALL CLIFFORD. 


RICHARD OSBORNE ELLIOTT. 


“ Why the devil dosen’t he want me to speak 
of her ? ” 

He opened the door, and, discouraging the 
caresses of two brindle bull-dogs, sank down 
on the sofa. 

Elliot sat smoking and sketching with a 
piece of charcoal by the window. 

“ Hello,” he said, without looking around. 

Clifford gazed absently at the back of his 
head, murmuring, “ I’m afraid, I’m afraid that 
man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, 
at last, “ Hastings, — you know the chap that 
old Tabby Byram came around here to tell 
us about — the day you had to hide Colette in 
the armoire ” 

“ Yes, what’s up ? ” 

«« Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.” 

“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm. 

“ Don’t you think so ? ” demanded Clifford. 

“ Why yes, but he is going to have a tough 
time when some of his illusions are dis- 
pelled.” 

“ More shame to those who dispel ’em ! ” 

“Yes, — wait until he comes to pay his call 
on us, unexpectedly, of course ” 

Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar. 

“ I was just going to say,” he observed, 
“ that I have asked him not to come without 
letting us know, so I can postpone any orgie 
you may have intended ” 


254 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“ Ah ! ” cried Elliott indignantly, “ I suppose 
you put it to him in that way.” 

“Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then 
more seriously, “ I don’t want anything to oc- 
cur here to bother him. He’s a brick and it’s 
a pity we can’t be more like him.” 

“ I am,” observed Elliott complacently,” 

only living with you ” 

“ Listen ! ” cried the other, “ I have man- 
aged to put my foot in it in great style. Do 
you know what I’ve done ? ” Well — the first 
time I met him in the street, — or rather, it 
was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to 
Valentine ! ” 

“ Did he object ? ” 

“ Believe me, said Clifford, solemnly, “ this 
rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valen- 
tine is — is — in fact is Valentine, than he has 
that he himself is a beautiful example of moral 
decency in a Quarter where morals are as 
rare as elephants. I heard enough in a con- 
versation between that blackguard Loffat 
and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to 
open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump ! 
He’s a healthy, clean minded young fellow, 
bred in a small country village, brought up 
with the idea that saloons are way stations to 

hell — and as for women ” 

“ Well,” demanded Elliott. 

“ Well,” said Clifford, “ his idea of the dan- 
gerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.” 
“ Probably, replied the other. 

“ He’s a trump ! ” said Clifford, “ and if he 
swears the world is as good and pure as his 
own heart, I’ll swear he’s right.” 

Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get 
a point and turned to his sketch saying, “ he 
will never hear any pessimism from Richard 
Osborne E.” 


STREET OF OUR LADY OR THE FIELDS. 

“ He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then 
he unfolded a small perfumed note, written 
on rose-colored paper, which had been lying 
on the table before him. 

He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two 
from “ Miss Helyett,” and sat down to answer 
it on his best cream-laid note-paper. When it 
was written and sealed, he picked up his 
stick and marched up and down the studio 
two or three times, whistling. 

“Going out?” inquired the other, without 
turning. 

“ Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over 
Elliott’s shoulder, watching him pick out the 
lights in his sketch with a bit of bread. 

“To-morrow is Sunday,” he observed after 
a moment’s silence. 

“ Well ? ” inquired Elliott. 

“ Have you seen Colette ? ” 

“ No, I will to-night. She and Rowden and 
Jacqueline are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose 
you and C£cile will be there ? ” 

“ Well, no,” replied Clifford. “ C^cile dines 
at home to-night, and I — I had an idea of 
going to Mignon’s.” 

Elliott looked at him with disapproval. 

“You can make all the arrangements for 
La Roche without me,” he continued, avoid- 
ing Elliott’s eyes. 

“What are you up to now ? ” 

“ Nothing,” protested Clifford. 

“ Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with 
scorn ; “ fellows don’t rush off to Mignon’s when 
the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now ? — 
but no, I won’t ask that, — what’s the use ! ” 
Then he lifted up his voice in complaint and 
beat upon the table with his pipe. “ What’s 
the use of ever trying to keep track of you ? 


2-6 THE KING IN YELLOW. 

What will C^cile say, — oh, yes, what will she 
say ? It’s a pity you can’t be constant two 
months, yes, by Jove ! and the Quarter is in- 
dulgent, but you abuse it’s good-nature and 
mine too ! ” 

Presently, he arose, and jamming his hat 
on his head, marched to the door. 

“ Heaven alone knows why any one puts up 
with your antics, but they all do and so do I. 
If I were C^cile or any of the other pretty 
fools after whom you have toddled and will, 
in all human probabilities, continue to toddle, 

I say, if I were Cdcile I’d spank you ! Now 
I’m going to Boulant’s, and as usual I shall 
make excuses for you and arrange the affair, 
and I don’t care a continental where you are 
going, but, by the skull of the studio skeleton ! 
it you don’t turn up to-morrow with your 
sketching-kit under one arm and Cdcile under 
the other, — if you don’t turn up in good shape. 
I’m done with you, and the. rest can think 
what they please. Good-night.” 

Clifford said good-night with as pleasant a 
smile as he could muster, and then sat down * 
with his eyes on the door. He took out his 
watch and gave Elliott ten minutes to vanish, 
then rang the concierge’s call, murmuring, 
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, why the devil do I do 
it?” 

“ Alfred,” he said, as that gimlet-eyed per- 
son answered the call, “ make yourself clean, 
and proper, Alfred, and replace your sabots 
with a pair of shoes. Then put on your best 
hat and take this letter to the big white house 
in the rue de Dragon. There is no answer, 
mon petit Alfred.” 

The concierge departed with a snort in 
which unwillingness for the errand and affec- 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 ^y 

tion for M. Clifford were blended. Then 
with great, care the young fellow arrayed 
himself in all the beauties of his and Elliott’s 
wardrobe. He took his time about it, and 
occasionally interrupted his toilet to play his 
banjo or make pleasing diversion for the bull- 
dogs by gambling about on all fours. “ I’ve 
got two hours before me,” he thought, and 
borrowed a pair of Elliott’s silken foot-gear, 
with which he and the dogs played ball until 
he decided to put them on. Then he lighted 
a cigarette and inspected his dress-coat. 
When he had emptied it of four handkerchiefs, 
a fan, and a pair of crumpled gloves as long 
as his arm, he decided it was not suited to 
add iclat to his charms and cast about in his 
mind for a substitute. Elliott was too thin, 
and, anyway, his coats were now under lock 
and key. Rowden probably was as badly oft 
as himself. Hastings ! Hastings was the 
man ! But when he threw on a smoking- 
jacket and sauntered over to Hastings’ house, 
he was informed that he had been gone over 
an hour. 

“ Now, where in the name of all that’s 
reasonable could he have gone ! ” muttered 
Clifford, looking down the street. 

The maid didn’t know, so he bestowed upon 
her a fascinating smile and lounged back to 
the studio. 

Hastings was not far away. The Luxem- 
bourg is within five minutes’ walk of the rue 
Notre Dame des Champs, and there he sat 
under the shadow of a winged god, and there 
he had sat for an hour, poking holes in the 
dust and watching the steps which lead from 
the northern terrace to the fountain. The 
sun hung, a purple globe, above the misty 

*7 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


258 

hills of Meudon. Long streamers of clouds 
touched with rose swept low on the western 
sky and the dome of the distant Invalides 
burned like an opal through the haze. Be- 
hind the Palace the smoke from a high 
chimney mounted straight into the air, purple 
until it crossed the sun where it changed to a 
bar of smouldering fire. High above the 
darkening foliage of the chestnuts the twin 
towers of St. Sulpice rose, an ever-deepening 
silhouette. 

A sleepy blackbird was carolling in some 
near thicket and pigeons passed and repassed 
with the whisper of soft winds in their wings. 
The light on the Palace windows had died 
away, and the dome of the Pantheon swam 
aglow above the northern terrace, a fiery 
Valhalla in the sky, while below in grim 
array along the terrace ranged, the marble 
ranks of queens, looked out into the west. 

From the end of the long walk by the 
northern fagade of the Palace came the noise 
of omnibuses and the cries of the street. 
Hastings looked at the Palace clock. Six, 
and as his own watch agreed with it, he fell 
to poking holes in the gravel again. A con- 
stant stream of people Passed between the 
Odeon and the fountain. Priests in black, 
with silver-buckled shoes, line soldiers, 
slouchy and rakish, neat girls without hats 
bearing milliner’s boxes, students with black 
portfolios and high hats, students with berets 
and big canes, nervous, quick-stepping offi- 
cers, symphonies in turquoise and silver, 
ponderous jangling cavalrymen all over dust, 
pastry cooks’ boys skipping along with utter 
disregard for the safety of the basket balanced 
on the impish head, and then the lean outcast. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 ^g 

the shambling- Paris tramp, slouching with 
shoulders bent and little eye furtively scan- 
ning the ground for smokers’ refuse ; — all 
these moved in a steady stream across the 
fountain circle and out into the city by the 
Odeon, whose long arcades were now begin- 
ning to flicker with gas-jets. The melancholy 
bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour and the 
clock-tower of the Palace lighted up. Then 
hurried steps sounded across the gravel and 
Hastings raised his head. 

“How late you are,” he said, but his voice 
was hoarse and only his flushed face told how 
long had seemed the waiting. 

She said, “ I was kept — indeed, I was so 
much annoyed — and — and 1 may only stay a 
moment.” 

She sat down beside him casting a furtive 
glance over her shoulder at the god upon his 
pedestal. 

“ What a nuisance, that intruding cupid 
still there ? ” 

“Wings and arrows too,” said Hastings, 
unheeding her motion to be seated. 

“Wings,” she murmured, “oh, yes — to fly 
away with when he’s tired of his play. Of course 
it was a man who conceived the idea of wings, 
otherwise Cupid would have been insupport- 
able.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ Ma foi , it’s what men think.” 

“ And women ? ” 

“ Oh,” she said, with a toss of her small 
head, “ I really forget what we were speaking 
of.” 

“ We were speaking of love,” said Hastings. 

“/was not,” said the girl. Then looking 
up at the marble god, “ I don’t care for this 


2 5 o THE KING in yellow. 

one at all. I don’t believe he knows how to 
shoot his arrows — no indeed, he is a coward ; 
— he creeps up like an assassin in the twilight 
I don’t approve of cowardice,” she announced, 
and turned her back on the statue. 

“ I think,” said Hastings quietly, “that he 
does shoot fairly — yes, and even gives one 
warning.” 

“ Is it your experience, Monsieur Hast- 
ings ? ” I 

He looked straight into her eyes and said, 
“ He is warning me.” 

“ Heed the warning then,” she cried, with a 
nervous laugh. As she spoke she stripped off 
her gloves, and then carefully proceeded to 
draw them on again. When this was accom- 
plished she glanced at the Palace clock, saying, 
“ Oh, dear, how late it is ! ” furled her umbrella 
then unfurled it, and finally looked at him. 

“No,” he said, “ I shall not heed his warn- 
ing.” 

“ Oh, dear,” she sighed again, “ still talking 
about that tiresome statue ! ” Then stealing a 
glance at his face, “ I suppose — I suppose you 
are in love.” 

“ I don’t know,” he muttered, “ I suppose 
I am.” 

She raised her head with a quick gesture. 
“You seem delighted at the idea,” she said, 
but bit her lip and trembled as his eyes met 
hers. Then sudden fear came over her and 
she sprang up, staring into the gathering 
shadows. 

“ Are you cold ? ” he said, but she only an- 
' swered, “ Oh, dear, oh, dear, it is late — so late. 
I must go — good-night.” 

She gave him her gloved hand a moment 
and then withdrew it with a start. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 6 i 

“ What is it ? ” he insisted, “ are you fright- 
ened ? ” 

She looked at him strangely. 

“ No — no — not frightened, — you are very 
good to me ” 

“ By Jove ! ” he burst out, “ what do you 
mean by saying I’m good to you ! That’s at 
least the third time, and I don’t understand ! ” 

The sound of a drum from the guard-house 
at the palace cut him short. “ Listen,” she 
whispered, “ they are going to close. It’s late, 
oh, so late ! ” 

The rolling of the drum came nearer and 
nearer, and then the silhouette of the drummer 
cut the sky above the eastern terrace. The fad- 
ing light lingered a moment on his belt and bay- 
onet, then he passed into the shadows, drum- 
ming the echoes awake. Theroll became fainter 
along the eastern terrace, then grew and grew 
and rattled with increasing sharpness when he 
passed the avenue by the bronze lion and 
turned down the western terrace walk. Louder 
and louder the drum sounded and the echoes 
struck back the notes from the gray palace 
wall ; and now the drummer loomed up be- 
fore them — his red trousers a dull spot in the 
gathering gloom, the brass of his drum and 
bayonet touched with a pale spark, his epau- 
lettes tossing on his shoulders. He passed, 
leaving the crash of the drum in their ears, 
and far into the alley of trees they saw his 
little tin cup shining on his haversack. Then 
the sentinels began the monotonous cry: “on 
ferme ! on fe-rme ! ” and the bugle blew from 
the barracks in the rue de Tournon. 

“ On ferme ! on ferme ! ” 

“Good-night,” she whispered, “I must re- 
turn alone to-night.” 


2 5 2 THE king in yellow. 

He watched her until she reached the north- 
ern terrace, and then sat down on the marble 
seat until a hand on his shoulder and a glim- 
mer of bayonets warned him away. 

She passed on through the grove, and turn- 
ing into the rue de Medici, traversed it to the 
Boulevard. At the corner she bought a bunch 
of violets and walked on along the Boulevard 
to the rue des £coles. A cab was drawn up 
before Boulant’s and a pretty girl aided by 
Elliott jumped out. 

“Valentine!” cried the girl, “come with 
us ! ” 

“ I can’t,” she said, stopping a moment — 
“ I have a rendezvous at Mignon’s.” 

“ Not Victor ?” cried the girl laughing, but 
she passed with a little shiver, nodding good- 
night, then turning into the Boulevard St. 
Germain, she walked a little faster to escape a 
gay party sitting before the Cafe Cluny who 
called to her to join them. At the door of the 
Restaurant Mignon stood a coal-black negro 
in buttons. He took off his peaked cap as she 
mounted the carpeted stairs. 

“ Send Eugene to me,” she said at the office, 
and passing through the hallway to the right 
of the dining-room stopped before a row of 
panelled doors. A waiter passed and she re- 
peated her demand for Eugene, who presently 
appeared, noiselessly skipping, and bowed 
murmuring, “ Madame.” 

“ Who is here ? ” 

“No one in the cabinets, madame ; in the 
hall Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, 
Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Ma- 
dame Marie and their set.” Then he looked 
around and bowing again murmured, “ Mon- 
sieur awaits madame since half an hour,” and 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 (^ 

he knocked at one of the panelled doors bear- 
ing the number six. 

Clifford opened the door and the girl en- 
tered. 

The gargon bowed her in and whispering, 
“ will Monsieur have the goodness to ring,’’ 
vanished. 

He helped her off with her jacket and took 
her hat and umbrella. When she was seated 
at the little table with Clifford opposite, she 
smiled and leaned forward on both elbows 
looking him in the face. 

“ What are you doing here ? ” she de- 
manded. 

“ Waiting,” he replied, in accents of adora- 
tion. 

For an instant she turned and examined 
herself in the glass. The wide blue eyes, the 
curling hair, the straight nose and short 
curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant 
only, and then, its depths reflected her pretty 
neck and back. “ Thus do I turn my back 
on vanity,” she said, and then leaning forward 
again, “ what are you doing here ? ” 

“ Waiting for you,” repeated Clifford, 
slightly troubled. 

“ And C^cile.” 

“ Now don’t, Valentine ” 

“ Do you know,” she said calmly, “ I dis 
like your conduct ? ” 

He was a little disconcerted, and rang for 
Eugene to cover his confusion. 

The soup was bisque, and the wine Pom- 
mery, and the courses followed each other 
with the usual regularity until Eugene brought 
coffee, and there was nothing left on the table 
but a small silver lamp. 

“ Valentine,” said Clifford, after having ob- 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


264 

tained permission to smoke, “ is it the Vaude- 
ville or the Eldorado — or both, or the Nouveau 
Cirque, or ” 

“ It is here,” said Valentine. 

“ Well,” he said, greatly flattered, “ I’m 
afraid I couldn’t amuse you ” 

“ Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldo- 
rado.” 

“ Now see here, don’t guy me, Valentine. 
You always do, and, and, — you know what 
they say, — a good laugh kills ” 

“ What ? ” 

“ Er — er — love and all that.” 

She laughed until her eyes were moist with 
tears. “ Tiens,” she cried, “ he is dead, 
then ! ” 

Clifford eyed her with growing alarm. 

“ Do you know why I came ? ” she said. 

*« No,” he replied uneasily, “ I don’t.” 

“ How long have you made love to me ? ” 

“ Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled, — 
*• I should say, — for about a year.” 

“ It is a year, I think. Are you not tired ? ” 

He did not answer. 

“ Don’t you know that I like you too well 
to — to ever fall in love with you ? ” she said. 
“ Don’t you know that we are too good com- 
rades, — too old friends for that ? And were 
we not, — do you think that I do not know 
your history, Monsieur Clifford ? ” 

“ Don’t be, — don’t be so sarcastic,” he 
urged, “don’t be unkind, Valentine.” 

“ I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind, — to 
you and to C^cile.” 

“ C^cile is tired of me.” 

“ I hope she is,” said the girl, “ for she 
deserves a better fate. Tiens, do you know 
your reputation in the Quarter ? Of the in- 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 b$ 

constant, the most inconstant, — utterly incor- 
rigible and no more serious than a gnat on a 
summer night. Poor Cgcile ! ” 

Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she 
spoke more kindly. 

“ I like you. You know that. Everybody 
does. You are a spoiled child here. Every- 
thing is permitted you and every one makes 
allowance, but every one cannot be a victim 
to caprice.” 

“Caprice !” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls 
of the Latin Quarter are not capricious ” 

“ Never mind, — never mind about that ! 
You must not sit in judgment — you of all 
men. Why are you here to-night ? Oh,” she 
cried, “ I will tell you why ! Monsieur re- 
ceives a little note ; he sends a little answer ; 
he dresses in his conquering raiment ” 

“ I don’t,” said Clifford, very red. 

“ You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted 
with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, 
“ I am in your power, but I know I am in the 
power of a friend. I have come to acknowl- 
edge it to you here, — and it is because of that 
that I am here to beg of you — a — a favor.” 

Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing. 

“ I am in — great distress of mind. It is 
Monsieur Hastings.” 

“Well,” said Clifford, in some astonishment. 

“ I want to ask you,” she continued in a 
low voice, “ I want to ask you to — to — in case 
you should speak of me before him, — not to 
say, — not to say ” 

“ I shall not speak of you to him,” he said 
quietly. 

“ Can — can you prevent others ? ” 

“ I might if I was present. May I ask 

why ? ” 


266 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“That is not fair,” she murmured, “you 
know how — how he considers me, — as he 
considers every woman. You know how 
different he is from you and the rest. I have 
never seen a man, — such a man as Monsieur 
Hastings.” 

He let his cigarette go out unnoticed. 

“ I am almost afraid of him — afraid he 
should know — what we all are in the Quarter. 
Oh, I do not wish him to know ! I do not 
wish him to — to turn from me — to cease from 
speaking to me as he does! You — you and 
the rest cannot know what it has been to me. 
I could not believe him, — I could not believe 
he was so good and — and noble. I do not 
wish him to know — so soon. He will find 
out — sooner or later, he will find out for him- 
self, and then he will turn away from me. 
Why!” she cried passionately, “ why should 
he turn from me and not from you f ” 

Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his ciga- 
rette. 

The girl rose, very white. “ He is your 
friend — you have a right to warn him.” 

“ He is my friend,” he said at length. 

They looked at each other in silence. 

Then she cried, “ by all that I hold to me 
most sacred, you need not warn him ! ” 

“ I shall trust your word,” he said pleas- 
antly. 


•STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 


IV. 

HE month passed quickly for Hast- 
ings, and left few definite impressions 
after it. It did leave some, however. 
One was a painful impression of 
meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des 
Capucines in company with a very pronounced 
young person whose laugh dismayed him, and 
when at last he escaped from the cafe where 
Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a 
bock he felt as if the whole boulevard was 
looking at him, and judging him by his com- 
pany. Later, an instinctive conviction re- 
garding the young person with Mr. Bladen 
sent the hot blood into his cheek and he re- 
turned to the pension in such a miserable 
.state of mind that Miss Byng was alarmed and 
advised him to conquer his homesickness at 
once. 

Another impression was equally vivid. One 
Saturday morning feeling lonely, his wander- 
ings about the city brought him to the Gare 
St. Lazare. It was early for breakfast, but he 
entered the Hotel Terminus and took a table 
near the window. As he wheeled about to 
give his order, a man passing rapidly along 
the aisle collided with his head, and looking 
up to received the expected apology, he was 
met instead by a slap on the shoulder and a 
hearty, “ what the deuce are you doing here, 
old chap ? ” It was Rowden, who seized him 
and told him to come along. So, mildly pro- 
17 



2 £g THE KING IN YELLOW. 

testing, he was ushered into a private dining- 
room where Clifford, rather red, jumped up 
from the table and welcomed him with a 
startled air which was softened by the un- 
affected glee of Rowden and the extreme 
courtesy of Elliott. The latter presented him 
to three bewitching girls who welcomed him 
so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his 
demand that Hastings should make one of 
the party, that he consented at once. While 
Elliott briefly outlined the projected excursion 
to La Roche, Hastings, delightedly ate his 
omelet, and returned the smiles of encourage- 
ment from C^cile and Colette and Jacqueline. 
Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was 
telling Rowden what an ass he was. Poor 
Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divin- 
ing how affairs were turning, frowned on 
Clifford and found a moment to let Rowden 
know that they were all going to make the 
best of it. 

“ You shut up,” he observed to Clifford, 
“it’s fate, and that settles it.” 

“ It’s Rowden and that settles it,” mur- 
mured Clifford, concealing a grin. For after 
all he was not Hastings’ wet nurse. So it 
came about that the train which left the Gare 
St. Lazare at 9:15 A. M. stopped a moment 
in its career towards Havre and deposited at 
the red-roofed station of La Roche a merry 
party, armed with sunshades, trout rods, and 
one cane, carried by the non-combatant, 
Hastings. Then, when they had established 
their camp in a grove of sycamores which 
bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the ac- 
knowledged master of all that pertained to 
sportsmanship, took command. 

w You, Rowden,” he said, «« divide your 


STREET OP OUR LADY OP THE FIELDS , 2 G§ 

flies with Elliott and keep an eye on him or 
else he’ll be trying to put on a float and sinker. 
Prevent him by force from grubbing about for 
worms.” 

Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in 
the general laugh. 

“ You make me ill,” he asserted ; “ do you 
think this is my first trout ? ” 

“ I shall be delighted to see your first trout,” 
said Clifford, and dodging a fly hook, hurled 
with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip 
three slender rods destined to bring joy and 
fish to Cgcile, Colette, and Jacqueline. With 
perfect gravity he ornamented each line with 
four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant 
quill float. 

“ / shall never touch the worms,” an- 
nounced Cgcile with a shudder. 

Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain 
her, and Hastings pleasantly offered to act in 
the capacity of general baiter and taker off of 
fish. But C^cile, doubtless fascinated by the 
gaudy flies in Clifford’s book, decided to ac- 
cept lessons from him in the true art, and 
presently disappeared up the Ept with Clif- 
ford in tow. 

Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette. 

“ I prefer gudgeons,” said that damsel with 
decision, “ and you and Monsieur Rowden 
may go away when you please ; may they not, 
Jacqueline ? ” 

“ Certainly,” responded Jacqueline. 

Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and 
reel. 

“ You’ve got your reel on wrong side up,” 
observed Rowden. 

Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at 
Colette. 


THE KING IN YELLOW \ 


2J0 

“ I — I — have almost decided to — er — not 
to flip the flies about just now,” he began. 
There’s the pole that G*cile left ” 

“ Don’t call it a pole,” corrected Rowden. 

“ Rod then,” continued Elliott, and started 
off in the wake of the two girls, but was 
promptly collared by Rowden. 

“ No you don’t ! Fancy a man fishing with 
a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his 
hand ! You come along ! ” 

Where the placid little Ept flows down be- 
tween its thickets to the Seine, a grassy bank 
shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on 
this bank sat Colette and Jacqueline and chat- 
tered and laughed and watched the swerving 
of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat 
over his eyes, his head on a bank of moss, 
listened to their soft voices and gallantly un- 
hooked the small and indignant gudgeon when 
a flash of a rod and a half suppressed scream 
announced a catch. The sunlight filtered 
through the leafy thickets awaking to song 
the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black 
and white flirted past, alighting near by with 
a hop and bound and twitch of the tail. Blue 
and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked 
through the trees, and a low-sailing hawk 
wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, 
putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge 
birds. 

Across the Seine a gull dropped on the 
water like a plume. The air was pure and 
still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a 
distant farm came faintly the shrill cock-crow 
and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug 
with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name, 
“ Gu£pe 2 7,” ploughed up the river dragging 
its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 

dropped down with the current toward sleepy 
Rouen. 

A faint fresh odor of earth and water hung 
in the air, and through the sunlight, orange- 
tipped butterflies danced above the marsh 
grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through 
the mossy woods. 

Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It 
was two o’clock when Elliott strolled back, 
and frankly admitting that he had eluded 
Rowden, sat down beside Colette and prepared 
to doze with satisfaction. 

“ Where are your trout ? ” said Colette 
severely. 

“ They still live,” murmured Elliott and 
went fast asleep. 

Rowden returned shortly after, and casting 
a scornful glance at the slumbering one, dis- 
played three crimson-flecked treat. 

“ And that,” smiled Hastings lazily, “ that 
is the holy end to which the faithful plod, — . 
the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of 
silk and feather.” 

Rowden disdained to answer him. Colette 
caught another gudgeon and awoke Elliott 
who protested and gazed about for the lunch 
baskets, as Clifford and C^cile came up de- 
manding instant refreshment. Chile’s skirts 
were soaked, and her gloves torn but she was 
happy, and Clifford, dragging out a two pound 
trout, stood still to receive the applause of the 
company. 

“ Where the deuce did you get that,” de- 
manded Elliott. 

C^cile, wet and enthusiastic, recounted the 
battle, and then Clifford eulogized her powers 
with the fly, and, in proof, produced from his 


THE KING Itf YELLOW. 


272 

creel a defunct chub, which, he observed, just 
missed being a trout. 

They were all very merry at luncheon and 
Hastings was voted “ charming.” He enjoyed 
it immensly, — only it seemed to him at mo- 
ments that flirtation went further in France 
than in Millbrook, Connecticut, and he thought 
that Cgcile might be a little less enthusiastic 
about Clifford, that perhaps it would be quite 
as well if Jacqueline sat further away from 
Rowden and that ^possibly Colette could have, 
for a moment, at least, taken her eyes from El- 
liot’s face. Still he enjoyed it — except when 
his thoughts drifted to Valentine and then he 
felt that he was very far away from her. La 
Roche is at least an hour and a half from Paris. 
It is also true that he felt a happiness, a quick 
heart-beat when, at eight o’clock that night the 
train which bore them from La Roche rolled 
into the Gare St. Lazare and he was once 
more in the city of Valentine. 

“ Good-night,” they said, pressing around 
him. “You must come with us next time ! ” 

He promised, and watched them, two by two, 
drift into the darkening city, and stood so long 
that, when again he raised his eyes, the vast 
Boulevard was twinkling with gas-jets through 
which the electric lights stared like moons. 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 


2 73 


V. 

T was with another quick heart-beat 
that he awoke next morning, for his 
first thought was of Valentine. 

The sun already gilded the towers 
of Notre Dame, the clatter of workmen’s 
sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, 
and across the way a blackbird in a pink 
almond tree was going into an ecstasy of trills. 

He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk 
walk in the country, hoping later to beguile 
that gentleman into the American church for 
his soul’s sake. He found Alfred the gimlet- 
eyed, washing the asphalt walk which*led to 
the studio. 

“ Monsieur Elliott ? ” he replied to the per- 
functory inquiry, “je ne sais ftas." 

“And Monsieur Clifford,” — began Hastings 
somewhat astonished. 

“ Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge 
with fine irony, “ will be pleased to see you, as 
he retired early ; in fact he has just come in.” 

Hastings hesitated while the concierge pro- 
nounced a fiery eulogy on people who never 
stayed out all night and then came battering 
at the lodge gate during hours which even a 
gendarme held sacred to sleep He also dis- 
coursed eloquently upon the beauties of tem- 
perance, ancl took an ostentatious draught from 
the fountain in the court. 

“ I do not think I will come in,” said Hast- 
ings. 



274 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


“Pardon, Monsieur,” growled the con- 
cierge, “ perhaps it would be well to see Mon- 
sieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me 
he drives forth with hair-brushes and boots. 
It is a mercy if he has not set fire to something 
with his candle.” 

Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swal- 
lowing his dislike of such a mission, walked 
slowly through the ivy-covered alley and 
across the inner garden to the studio. He 
knocked. Perfect silence. Then he knocked 
again and this time something struck the door 
from within with a crash. 

“That,” said the concierge, “was a boot.” 
He fitted his duplicate key into the lock and 
ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered 
evening dress, sat on the rug in the middle ot 
the room. He held in his hand a shoe, and 
did not appear astonished to see Hastings. 

“ Good-morning, do you use Pears’ soap ? ” 
he inquired with a vague wave of his hand 
and a vaguer smile. 

Hastings’ heart sank. “For Heaven’s 
sake,” he said, “ Clifford, goto bed.” 

“Not while that — that Alired pokes his 
shaggy head in here an’ I have a shoe left.” 

Hastings blew out the candle, picked up 
Clifford’s hat and cane, and said, with an emo- 
tion he could not conceal, “ this is terrible, 
Clifford. — I — never knew you did this sort of 
thing.” 

“Well, I do,” said Clifford. 

“ Where is Elliott ? ” 

“ Ole chap,” returned Clifford, becoming 
maudlin, “Providence which feeds — feeds — 
er — sparrows an’ that sort of thing watcheth 
over the intemperate wanderer ” 

“ Where is Elliott ? ” 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 j ^ 

But Clifford only wagged his head and 
waved his arm about. “ He’s out there, — 
somewhere about.” Then suddenly feeling a 
desire to see his missing chum, lifted up his 
voice and howled for him. 

Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on 
the lounge without a word. Presently, after 
shedding several scalding tears, Clifford bright- 
ened up and rose with great precaution. 

“ Ole chap,” he observed, “ do you want to 
see er — er miracle ? Well, here goes. I’m 
goin’ to begin.” 

He paused, beaming at vacancy. 

“ Er miracle,” he repeated. 

Hastings supposed he was alluding to the 
miracle of his keeping his balance and said 
nothing. 

“ I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced, “ poor 
ole Clifford’s goin’ to bed, an’ that’s er mir- 
acle ! ” 

And he did with a nice calculation of dis- 
tance and equilibrium which would have rung 
enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had 
he been there to assist en connaisseur. But 
he was not. He had not yet reached the 
studio. He was on his way, however, and 
smiled with magnificent* condescension on 
Hastings, who, half an hour later, found him 
reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. 
He permitted himself to be aroused, dusted 
and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he 
refused all further assistance, and bestowing 
a patronizing bow upon Hastings, steered a 
tolerably true course for the rue Vavin. 

Hastings watched him out of sight, and 
then slowly retraced his steps toward the 
fountain. At first he felt gloomy and de- 
pressed, but gradually the clear air of tfiq 


THE KING IN YELLOW . 


276 

morning lifted the pressure from his heart, 
and he sat down on the marble seat under 
the shadow of the winged god. 

The air was fresh and sweet with perfume 
from the orange flowers. Everywhere pigeons 
were bathing, dashing the water over their 
iris-hued breasts, flashing in and out of the 
spray or nestling almost to the neck along the 
polished basin. The sparrows, too, were 
abroad in force, soaking their dust-colored 
feathers in the limpid pool and chirping with 
might and main. Under the sycamores which 
surround the duck pond opposite the fountain 
of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped 
the herbage, or waddled in rows down the 
bank to embark on some solemn aimless 
cruise. \ 

Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly 
night’s repose under the lilac leaves, crawled 
over and over the white phlox, or took a 
rheumatic flight toward some sun-warmed 
shrub. The bees were already busy among 
the heliotrope and one or two great gray flies 
with brick-colored eyes sat in a spot of sun- 
light beside the marble seat, or chased each 
other about, only to return again to the spot 
of sunshine and rub their forelegs, exulting. 

The sentries paced briskly before the 
painted boxes, pausing at times to look to- 
ward the guard-house for their relief. 

They came at last, with a shuffle of feet 
and click of bayonets, the word was passed, 
the relief fell out, and away they went, 
crunch, crunch, across the gravel. 

A mellow chime floated from the clock- 
tower of the palace, the deep bell of St. Sul- 
pice, echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dream- 
ing in the shadow of the god, and while he 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 h ]'] 

mused, somebody came and sat down beside 
him. At first he did not raise his head. It 
was only when she spoke that he sprang up. 

“ You ! At this hour ? ” 

“ I was restless, I could not sleep.” Then 
in a low happy voice — “ and you ! at this 
hour ? ” 

“ I — I slept, but the sun awoke me.” 

“/ could not sleep,” she said, and her eyes 
seemed, for a moment, toucned with an inde- 
finable shadow. Then, smiling, “ I am so 
glad — I seemed to know you were coming. 
Don’t laugh, I believe in dreams.” 

“ Did you really dream of, — of my being 
here ? ” 

“I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” 
she admitted. Then for a time they were 
mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness 
of being together. And after all their silence 
was eloquent, for faint smiles, and glances 
born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, 
until lips moved and words were formed, 
which seemed almost superfluous. What 
they said was not very profound. Perhaps 
the most valuable jewel that fell from Hast- 
ings’ lips bore direct reference to breakfast. 

“I have not yet had my chocolate,” she 
confessed, “ but what a material man you are.” 

“ Valentine,” he said impulsively, “ I wish, — 
I do wish that you would, — just for this once, — • 
give me the whole day, — just for this once.” 

“ Oh dear,” she smiled, “ not only material 
but selfish.” 

“ Not selfish, hungry,” he said, looking at 
at her. 

“ A cannibal too, oh dear ! ” 

“ Will you, Valentine ? ” 

4< But my chocolate 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


278 

«* Take it with me.” 

“ But dejeuner ” 

“Together, at St. Cloud.” 

“ But I can't ” 

“ Together, — all day, — all day long ; will 
you Valentine ? ” 

She was silent. 

“ Only for this once.” 

Again that indefinable shadow fell across 
her eyes, and when it was gone she sighed. 
“ Yes, — together, only for this once.” 

“ All day ? ” he said, doubting his happi- 
ness. 

“ All day,” she smiled, “ and oh, I am so 
hungry.” 

He laughed, enchanted. 

“What a material young lady it is.” 

On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a 
Crgmerie painted white and blue outside, and 
neat and clean as a whistle inside. The 
auburn-haired young woman who speaks 
French like a native, and rejoices in the name 
of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, 
and tossing a fresh napkin over the zinc 
tete-d-tite table, whisked before them two 
cups of chocolate and a basket full of crisp, 
fresh croissons. 

The primrose-colored pats of butter each 
stamped with a shamrock in relief, seemed 
saturated with the fragrance of Normandy 
pastures, 

“ How delicious,” they said in the same 
breath, and then laughed at the coincidence. 

“ With but a single thought,” he began. 

“ How absurd,” she cried with cheeks all 
rosy, “I’m thinking I’d like a croisson.” 

“So am I,” he replied triumphant, “that 
proves it.” 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 jg 

Then they had a quarrel ; she accusing 
him ot behavior unworthy of a child in arms, 
and he denying it, and bringing counter 
charges, until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed 
in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten 
under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and 
she took his arm with a bright nod to Mile. 
Murphy, who cried them a merry : “ Bonjour, 
Madam! bonjour , Monsieur !" and watched 
them hail a passing cab and drive away. 
Dieu / qu'il est beau,” she sighed, adding 
after a moment, “ Do they be married, I dun- 
no , — ma foi ils ont bien I'air.” 

The cab swung around the rue de Medici, 
turned into the rue de Vaugirard, followed it 
to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and 
taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up be- 
fore the Gare Montparnasse. They were just 
in time for a train and scampered up the 
stairway and out to the cars as the last note 
from the starting gong rang through the 
arched station. The guard slammed the 
door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, 
answered by a screech from the locomotive, 
and the long train glided from the station, 
faster, faster, and sped out into the morning 
sunshine. The summer wind blew in their 
faces from the open window, and sent the soft 
hair dancing on the girl’s forehead. 

“ We have the compartment to ourselves,” 
said Hastings. 

She leaned against the cushioned window- 
seat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips 
parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered 
the ribbons under her chin. With a quick 
movement she untied them and drawing a 
long hat pin from her hat, laid it down op 
t}ie seat beside her. The train was flying. 


280 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


The color surged in her cheeks and with 
each quick-drawn breath, her breast rose and 
fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. 
Trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a 
mist of telegraph poles. 

“Faster ! faster ! ” she cried. 

His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open 
and blue as the summer sky, seemed fixed 
on something far ahead, — something which 
came no nearer, but fled before them as they 
fled. 

Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim 
fortress on the hill, now by the cross of a 
country chapel ? Was it the summer moon, 
ghost-like, slipping through the vaguer blue 
above ? 

“ Faster ! faster !” she cried. 

Her parted lips burned scarlet. 

The car shook and shivered and the fields 
streamed by like an emerald torrent. He 
caught the excitement and his face glowed. 

“Oh,” she cried, and with an unconscious 
movement caught his hand, drawing him to 
the window beside her. “Look! lean out 
with me ! ” 

He only saw her lips move ; her voice was 
drowned in the roar of a trestle, but his hand 
closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The 
wind whistled in their ears. “Not so far 
out, Valentine, take care ! ” he gasped. 

Below, through the ties of the trestle, a 
broad river flashed into view and out again, 
as the train thundered along a tunnel, and 
away once more through the freshet of green 
fields. The wind roared about them. The 
girl was leaning far out from the window, 
and he caught her by the waist, crying, “ Not 
too far ! ” but she only murmured, “ Faster ! 


STREET OF OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS. 2 8l 

faster ! away out of the city, out of the land, 
faster, faster ! away out of the world ! ” 

“ What are you saying all to yourself,” he 
said, but his voice was broken, and the wind 
whirled it back into his throat. 

She heard him, and, turning from the 
window looked down at his arm about her. 
Then she raised her eyes to his. The car 
shook and the windows rattled. They were 
dashing through a forest now, and the sun 
swept the dewy branches with running flashes 
of fire. He looked into her troubled eyes ; he 
drew her to him and kissed the half-parted 
lips, and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry, 
“ — Not that — not that ! ” 

But he held her close and strong, whisper- 
ing words of honest love and passion, and 
when she sobbed — “Not that — not that — I 
have promised ! You must — you must know 

—I am — not — worthy ” In the purity of 

his own heart her words were, to him, mean- 
ingless then, meaningless forever after. Pres- 
ently her voice ceased, and her head rested 
on his breast. He leaned against the window, 
his ears swept by the furious wind, his heart 
in a joyous tumult. The forest was passed, 
and the sun slipped from behind the trees, 
flooding the earth again with brightness. 
She raised her eyes and looked out into the 
world from the window. Then she began to 
speak, but her voice was faint and he bent 
his head close to hers and listened. “ I 
cannot turn from you; I am too weak, You 
were long ago my master — master of my heart 
and soul. I have broken my word to one 
who trusted me, but I have told you all ; — 
what matters the rest?” He smiled at her 
innocence and she worshipped his. She 


282 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


spoke again : “ Take me or cast me away ; — ■ 

what matters it ? Now with a word you can 
kill me, and it might be easier to die than to 
look upon happiness as great as mine.” 

He took her in his arms ; “ Hush, what are 
you saying ? Look, — look out at the sunlight, 
the meadows and the streams. We shall be 
very happy in so bright a world.” 

She turned to the sunlight. From the 
window, the world below seemed very fair to 
her. 

Trembling with happiness, she sighed : “ Is 
this the world ? Then I have never known 
it.” 

“ Nor have I, God forgive me,” he mur- 
mured. 

Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the 
Fields who forgave them both. 


RUE BARRfiE 


For let Philosopher and Doctor preach 
Of what they will and what they will not, — c&ct. 
Is but one link in an eternal chain 
That none can slip nor break nor over-reach.’' 






RUE BARRfeE. 

44 Crimson nor yellow roses nor 
The savour of the mounting sea 
Are worth the perfume I adore 
That clings to thee.” 

** The languid-headed lilies tire, 

The changeless waters weary me ; 

I ache with passionate desire 
Of thine and thee.” 

“ There are but these things in the world — 

Thy mouth of fire, 

Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled 
And my desire.” 

■ NE morning at Julian’s, a student 
said to Selby; “that is Foxhall 
Clifford,” pointing with his brushes 
at a young man who sat before an 
easel, doing nothing. 

Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and 
began : “ My name is Selby, — I have just 

arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of intro- 
duction — ” His voice was lost in the crash of 
a falling easel, the owner of which promptly 
assaulted his neighbor, and for a time the 
noise of battle rolled through the studios of 
MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently 
subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. 
Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception in 
the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely 
watching the fight. 

“ It’s a little noisy here,” said Clifford, “ but 
you will like the fellows when you know 
them.” His unaffected manner delighted 
Selby. Then with a simplicity that won his 

285 


286 


THE KING IN YELLOW". 


heart, he presented him to half a dozen 
students of as many nationalities. Some were 
cordial, all were polite. Even the majestic 
creature who held the position of Massier, 
unbent enough to say : “ My friend, when a 

man speaks French as well as you do, and is 
also a friend of Monsieur Clifford, he will 
have no trouble in this studio. You expect, 
of course, to fill the stove until the next new 
man comes ? ” 

“Of course.” 

“ And you don’t mind chaff ? ” 

“No,” replied Selby, who hated it. 

Clifford, much amused, put on his hat, 
saying, “You must expect lots of it at first.” 

Selby placed his own hat on his head and 
followed him to the door. 

As they passed the model stand there was a 
furious cry of “ Chapeau ! Chapeau ! ” and a 
student sprang from his easel menacing Selby, 
who reddened but looked at Clifford. 

“Take off your hat for them,” said the lat- 
ter, laughing. 

A little embarrassed, he turned and saluted 
the studio. 

“ Et moi ? ” cried the model. 

“You are charming,” replied Selby, aston- 
ished at his own audacity, but the studio rose 
as one man, shouting : “ He has done well ! 

he’s all right ! ” while the model, laughing, 
kissed her hand to him and cried : “ A demain 
beau jeune homme ! ” 

All that week Selby worked at the studio 
unmolested. The French students christened 
him “ l’Enfant Prodigue,” which was freely 
translated, “ The Prodigious Infant,” The Kid,” 
“ Kid Selby,” and “ Kidby.” But the disease 
soon ran its course from “ Kidby,” to “ Kid- 


RUE BAR REE. 


287 

ney,” and then naturally to “ Tidbits * where 
it was arrested by Clifford’s authority and 
ultimately relapsed to “ Kid.” 

Wednesday came, and with it M. Boulanger. 
For three hours the students writhed under 
his biting sarcasms, — among the others Clif- 
ford, who was informed that he knew even 
less about a work of art than he. did about the 
art of work. Selby was more fortunate. The 
professor examined his drawing in silence, 
looked at him sharply, and passed on with a 
noncommittal gesture. He presently de- 
parted arm in arm with Bouguereau, to the 
relief of Clifford who was then at liberty to 
jam his hat on his head and depart. 

The next day, he did not appear, and Selby, 
who had counted on seeing him at the studio, 
a thing which he learned later it was vanity to 
count on, wandered back to the Latin Quarter 
alone. 

Paris was still strange and new to him. 
He was vaguely troubled by its splendor. No 
tender memories stirred his American bosom 
at the Place du Chatelet, nor even by Notre 
Dame. The Palais de Justice with its clock 
and turrets and stalking sentinels in blue and 
vermilion, the Place St. Michel with its jum- 
ble of omnibuses and ugly water-spitting 
griffins, the hill of the Boulevard St. Michel, 
the tooting trams, the policemen dawdling two 
by two, and the table-lined terraces of the 
Cafe Vachette, were nothing to him, as yet, 
nor did he even know, when he stepped from 
the stones of the Place St. Michel to the as- 
phalt of the Boulevard, that he had crossed the 
frontier and entered the student zone, — the 
famous Latin Quarter. 

A cabman hailed him as “ bourgeois,” and 


288 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


urged the superiority of driving over walking. 
A gamin, with an appearance of great con- 
cern, requested the latest telegraphic news 
from London, and their, standing on his head, 
invited Selby to feats of strength. A pretty 
girl gave him a glance from a pair of violet 
eyes. He did not see her, but she, catching 
her own reflection in a window, wondered at 
the color burning in her cheeks. Turning to 
resume her course, she met Foxhall Clifford, 
and hurried on. Clifford, open-mouthed, fol- 
lowed her with his eyes ; then he looked after 
Selby, who had turned into the Boulevard St. 
Germain toward the rue de Seine. Then he 
examined himself in the shop window. The 
result seemed to be unsatisfactory. 

“ I’m not a beauty,” he mused, “ but neither 
am I a hobgoblin. What does she mean by 
blushing at Selby ? I never before saw her 
look at a fellow in my life, — neither has any 
one in the Quarter. Anyway, I can swear 
she never looks at me, and goodness knows I 
have done all that respectful adoration can 
do.” 

He sighed, and murmuring a prophecy con- 
cerning the salvation of his immortal soul 
swung into that graceful lounge which at all 
times characterized Clifford. With no appar- 
ent exertion, he overtook Selby at the corner, 
and together they crossed the sunlit Boulevard 
and sat down under the awning of the Cafe du 
Cercle. Clifford bowed to everybody on the 
terrace, saying, “You shall meet them all 
later, but now let me present you to two of the 
sights of Paris, Mr. Richard Elliott and Mr. 
Stanley Rowden.” 

The “ sights ” looked amiable, and took 
vermouth. 


RUE BARKER. 


289 

“You cut the studio to-day,” said Elliott, 
suddenly turning on Clifford who avoided his 
eyes. 

“ To commune with nature ? ” observed 
Rowden. 

“ What’s her name this time ? ” asked 
Elliott, and Rowden answered promptly ; 
“ Name, Yvette ; nationality, Breton ” 

“Wrong,” replied Clifford blandly, “its 
Rue Barrie.” 

The subject changed instantly, and Selby 
listened in surprise to names which were new 
to him, and eulogies on the latest Prix de Rome 
winner. He was delighted to hear opinions 
boldly expressed and points honestly debated, 
although the vehicle was mostly slang, both 
English and French. He longed for the time 
when he too should be plunged into the strife 
for fame. 

The bells of St. Sulpice struck the hour, and 
the Palace of the Luxembourg answered chime 
on chime. With a glance at the sun, dipping 
low in the golden dust behind the Palais Bour- 
bon, they rose, and turning to the east, 
crossed the Boulevard St. Germain and saun- 
tered toward the Iixole de Medecine. At the 
corner a girl passed them, walking hurriedly. 
Clifford smirked, Elliott and Rowden were 
agitated, but they all bowed, and, without 
raising her eyes, she returned their salute. 
But Selby, who had lagged behind, fascinated 
by some gay shop window, looked up to meet 
two of the bluest eyes he had ever seen. 
The eyes were dropped in an instant, and 
the young fellow hastened to overtake the 
others. 

“By Jove,” he said, “do you fellows know 
I have just seen the prettiest girl ” An ex- 

*9 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


29O 

clamation broke from the trio, gloomy, fore- 
boding, like the chorus in a Greek play. 

** Rue Barrie ! ” 

“ What ! ” cried Selby, bewildered. 

The only answer was a vague gesture from 
• Clifford. 

Two hours later, during dinner, Clifford 
turned to Selby and said, “You want to ask 
me something ; I can tell by the way you fid- 
get about.” 

“Yes, I do,” he said, innocently enough; 
“ it’s about that girl. Who is she ? ” 

In Rowden’s smile there was pity, in Elli- 
ott’s, bitterness. 

“ Her name,” said Clifford solemnly, “ is un- 
known to any one, at least,” he added with 
much conscientiousness, “as far as I can 
learn. Every fellow in the Quarter bows to 
her and she returns the salute gravely, but no 
man has ever been known to obtain more than 
that. Her profession, judging from her music- 
roll, is that of a pianist. Her residence is in 
a small and humble street which is kept in a 
perpetual process of repair by the city authori- 
ties, and from the black letters painted on the 
barrier which defends the street from traffic, 
she has taken the name by which we know 
her, — Rue Barr6e. Mr. Rowden, in his im- 
perfect knowledge of the French tongue, called 
our attention to it as Roo Barry — ” 

“I didn’t,” said Rowden hotly. 

“ And Roo Barry or Rue Barrie, is to-day 
an object of adoration to every rapin in the 
Quarter ” 

“We are not rapins,” corrected Elliott. 

“ / am not,” returned Clifford, “ and I beg to 
call to your attention, Selby, that these two 
gentlemen have at various and apparently 


RUE BARR EE. 


29 1 

unfortunate moments, offered to lay down 
life and limb at the feet of Rue Barrie. The 
lady possesses a chilling smile which she uses 
on such occasions and,” here he became 
gloomily impressive, “ I have been forced to 
believe that neither the scholarly grace of my 
friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of my 
friend Rowden have touched that heart of 
ice.” 

Elliott and Rowden, boiling with indigna- 
tion, cried out, “ And you ! ” 

“ I,” said Clifford blandly, “ do fear to tread 
where you rush in.” 


292 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


* 


II. 

WENTY-FOUR hours later Selby 
had completely forgotten Rue Barrie. 
During the week he worked with 
might and main at the studio, and 
Saturday night found him so tired that he went 
to bed before dinner and had a nightmare 
about a river of yellow ochre in which he was 
drowning. Sunday morning, apropos of noth- 
ing at all, he thought of Rue Barree and ten 
seconds afterwards he saw her. It was at the 
flower market on the marble bridge. She was 
examining a pot of pansies. The gardener 
had evidently thrown heart and soul into the 
transaction, but Rue Barrie shook her head. 

It is a question whether Selby would have 
stopped then and there to inspect a cabbage- 
rose had not Clifford unwound for him the 
yarn of the previous Tuesday. It is possible 
that his curiosity was piqued, for with the ex- 
ception ol a hen-turkey, a boy of nineteen is the 
most openly curious biped alive. F rom twenty 
until death he tries to conceal it. But, to be 
fair to Selby, it is also true that the market 
was attractive. Under a cloudless sky the 
flowers were packed and heaped along the 
marble bridge to the parapet. The air was 
soft, the sun spun a shadowy lacework among 
the palms and glowed in the hearts of a thou- 
sand roses. Spring had come, — was in full 
tide. The watering carts and sprinklers, 
spread freshness over the Boulevard, the spar- 
rows had become vulgarly obtrusive and the 
credulous Seine angler anxiously followed his 



RUE BARREE. 


' 293 

gaudy quill, floating among the soapsuds of 
the lavoirs. The white-spiked chestnuts clad 
in tender green, vibrated with the hum of bees. 
Shoddy butterflies flaunted their winter rags 
among the heliotrope. There was a smell of 
fresh earth in the air, an echo of the woodland 
brook in the ripple of the Seine, and swallows 
soared and skimmed among the anchored 
river craft. Somewhere in a window, a caged 
bird was singing its heart out to the sky. 

Selby looked at the cabbage-rose and then 
at the sky. Something in the song of the 
caged bird may have moved him, or perhaps it 
was that dangerous sweetness in the air of 
May. 

At first he was hardly conscious that he had 
stopped, then he was scarcely conscious why 
he had stopped, then he thought he would 
move on, then he thought he wouldn’t, then he 
looked at Rue Barree. 

The gardener said ; “ Mademoiselle, this is 
undoubtedly a fine pot of pansies.” 

Rue Barrel shook her head. 

The gardener smiled. She evidently did not 
want the pansies. She had bought many pots 
of pansies there, two or three every spring, and 
never argued. What did she want then ? The 
pansies were evidently a feeler toward a more 
important transaction. The gardener rubbed 
his hands and gazed about him. 

“ These tulips are magnificent,” he observed, 

“ and these hyacinths ” He fell into a trance 

at the mere sight of the scented thickets. 

“ That,” murmured Rue, pointing to a 
splendid rose-bush with her furled parasol, but 
in spite of her, her voice trembled a little. 
Selby noticed it, more shame to him that he 
>vas listening, and the gardener noticed it, and, 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


294 . 

burying his nose in the roses, scented a bar- 
gain. Still, to do him justice, he did not add 
a centime to the honest value of the plant, for 
after all, Rue was probably poor, and any one 
Could see she was charming. 

“ Fifty francs, Mademoiselle.” 

The gardener’s tone was grave. Rue felt 
that argument would be wasted. They both 
stood silent for a moment. The gardener did 
not eulogize his prize, — the rose-tree was 
gorgeous and any one could see it. 

“ I will take the pansies,” said the girl, and 
drew two francs from a worn purse. Then 
she looked up. A teardrop stood in the way 
refracting the light like a diamond, but as it 
rolled into a little corner by her nose, a vision 
of Selby replaced it, and when a brush of the 
handkerchief had cleared the startled blue 
eyes, Selby himself appeared, very much em- 
barrassed. He instantly looked up into the 
sky, apparently devoured with a thirst for 
astronomical research, and as he continued his 
investigations for fully five minutes, the gar- 
dener looked up too and so did a policeman. 
Then Selby looked at the tips of his boots, the 
gardener looked at him and the policeman 
slouched on. Rue Barrie had been gone some 
time. 

“What,” said the gardener, “ may I offer 
Monsieur ? ” 

Selby never knew why, but he suddenly be- 
gan to buy flowers. The gardener was elec- 
trified. Never before had he sold so many 
flowers, never at such satisfying prices, and 
never, never with such absolute unanimity of 
opinion with a customer. But he missed the 
bargaining, the arguing, the calling of Heaven 
to witness. The transaction lacked spice. 


RUE BARRIE. 


295 


*' These tulips are magnificent ! " 

“ They are ! ” cried Selby warmly. 

*• But alas, they are dear.” 

•• I will take them.” 

“ Dieu ! ” murmured the gardener in a per- 
spiration, “ he’s madder than most English- 
men.” 

“ This cactus ” 

“ Is gorgeous ! ” 

“ Alas ” 

“ Send it with the rest.” 

The gardener braced himself against the 
river wall. 

“ That splendid rose-bush,” he began faintly. 

“ That is a beauty. I believe it is fifty 
francs ” He stopped, very red. The gar- 

dener relished his confusion. Then a sudden 
cool self-possession took the place of his momen- 
tary confusion and he held the gardener with 
his eye, and bullied him. 

“ I’ll take that bush. Why did not the young 
lady buy it ? ” 

“ Mademoiselle is not wealthy.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Dame , I sell her many pansies ; pansies 
are not expensive.” 

“ Those are the pansies she bought ? ” 

“ These Monsieur, the blue and gold.” 

“ Then you intend to send them to her ? ” 

“ At midday after the market.” 

“ Take this rose-bush with them, and ” — 
here he glared at the gardener, “ don’t you 
dare say from whom they came.” The gar- 
dener’s eyes were like saucers, but Selby, calm 
and victorious, said : “ Send the others to the 
H6tel du S£nat, 7 rue de Tournon. I will 
leave directions with the concierge.” 

Then he buttoned his glove with much dig- 


THE KING IN YELLOW \ 


296 

nity and stalked off, but when well around the 
corner and hidden from the gardener’s view, 
the conviction that he was an idiot came home 
to him in a furious blush. Ten minutes later 
he sat in his room in the Hotel du Senat re- 
peating with an imbecile smile : “ What an ass 
I am, what an ass ! ” 

An hour later found him in the same chair, 
in the same position, his hat and gloves still 
on, his stick in his hand, but he was silent, 
apparently lost in contemplation of his boot 
toes, and his smile was less imbecile and even 
a bit retrospective. 


RUE BARR&E. 


297 


III. 

IBOUT five o’clock that afternoon, the 
little sad-eyed woman who fills the 
position of concierge at the Hotel du 
S£nat, held up her hands in amaze- 
ment to see a wagon-load of flower-bearing 
shrubs draw up before the doorway. She 
called Joseph, the intemperate gargon who, 
while calculating the value of the flowers in 
petit verres , gloomily disclaimed any knowl- 
edge as to their destination. 

“ Voyons ,” said the little concierge, “ cher- 
chons la femme!" 

“ You ? ” he suggested. 

The little woman stood a moment pensive 
and then sighed. Joseph caressed his nose, 
a nose which for gaudiness could vie with 
any floral display. 

Then the gardener came in, hat in hand, 
and a few minutes later Selby stood in the 
middle of his room, his coat off, his shirt- 
sleeves rolled up. The chamber originally 
contained, besides the furniture, about two 
square feet of walking room, and now this 
was occupied by a cactus. The bed groaned 
under crates of pansies, lilies and heliotrope, 
the lounge was covered with hyacinths and 
tulips, and the washstand supported a species 
of young tree warranted to bear flowers at 
some time or other. 

Clifford came in a little later, fell over a 
box of sweet peas, swore a little, apologized, 
and then as the full splendor of the floral fite 
burst upon him, sat down in astonishment 



2 q3 the king in yellow. 

upon a geranium. The geranium was a 
wreck, but Selby said, “ don’t mind,” and 
glared at the cactus. 

“ Are you going to give a ball ? ” demanded 
Clifford. 

“ N — no, — I’m very fond of flowers,” said 
Selby, but the statement lacked enthusiasm. 

“ I should imagine so.” Then, after a 
silence, “ That’s a fine cactus.” 

Selby contemplated the cactus, touched it 
with the air of a connaisseur, and pricked his 
thumb. 

Clifford poked a pansy with his stick. Then 
Joseph came in with the bill, announcing the 
sum total in a loud voice, partly to impress 
Clifford, partly to intimidate Selby into dis- 
gorging a fiourboire which he would share 
if he chose, with the gardener. Clifford tried 
to pretend that he had not heard, while Selby 
paid bill and tribute without a murmur. 
Then he lounged back into the room with an 
attempt at indifference which failed entirely 
when he tore his trousers on the cactus. 

Clifford made some commonplace remark, 
lighted a cigarette and looked out of the win- 
dow to give Selby a chance. Selby tried to 
take it, but getting as far as — “ Yes, spring is 
here at last,” froze solid. He looked at the 
back of Clifford’s head. It expressed volumes. 
Those little perked up ears seemed tingling 
with suppressed glee. He made a desperate 
effort to master the situation, and jumped up 
to reach for some Russian cigarettes as an 
incentive to conversation, but was foiled by 
the cactus to whom again he fell a prey. 
The last straw was added. 

“Damn the cactus.” This observation was 
wrung from Selby against his will, — against 


RUE BARREE. 


299 

his own instinct of self-preservation, but the 
thorns on the cactus were long and sharp and 
at their repeated prick, his pent-up wrath 
escaped. It was too late now ; it was done, 
and Clifford had wheeled around. 

“ See here, Selby, why the deuce did you 
buy those flowers ? ” 

“ I’m fond of them,” said Selby. 

“ What are you going to do with them ? 
You can’t sleep here.” 

“ I could, if you’d help me take the pansies 
off the bed.” 

“ Where can you put them ? ” 

“ Couldn’t I give them to the concierge ? ” 

As soon as he said it he regretted it. What 
in Heaven’s name would Clifford think of him ! 
He had heard the amount of the bill. Would 
he believe that he had invested in these lux- 
uries as a timid declaration to his concierge ? 
And would the Latin Quarter comment upon 
it in their own brutal fashion ? He dreaded 
ridicule, and he knew Clifford’s reputation. 

Then somebody knocked. 

Selby looked at Clifford with a hunted 
expression which touched that young man’s 
heart. It was a confession and at the same 
time a supplication. Clifford jumped up, 
threaded his way through the floral labyrinth, 
and putting an eye to the crack of the door, 
said, “ Who the devil is it ? ” 

This graceful style of reception is indigen- 
ous to the Quarter. 

“ It’s Elliott,” he said looking back, “ and 
Rowden, too, and their bulldogs.” Then he 
addressed them through the crack. 

“ Sit down on the stairs ; Selby and I are 
coming out directly.” 

Discretion is a virtue. The Latin Quarter 


THE KING IN YELLOW \ 


300 

possesses few, and discretion seldom figures on 
the list. They sat down and began to whistle. 

Presently Rowden called out, “ I smell 
flowers. They feast within ! ” 

“ You ought to know Selby better than 
that,” growled Clifford behind the door, while 
the other hurriedly exchanged his torn trous- 
ers for others. 

“ We know Selby,” said Elliott with em- 
phasis. 

“ Yes,” said Rowden, “ he gives receptions 
with floral decorations and invites Clifford, 
while we sit on the stairs.” 

“ Yes, while the youth and beauty of the 
Quarter revel,” suggested Rowden ; then, 
with sudden misgiving, “ Is Odette there ? ” 

“ See here,” demanded Elliott, “ is Colette 
there ? ” 

Then he raised his voice in a plaintive 
howl, “ Are you there, Colette, while I’m 
kicking my heels on these tiles ? ” 

“ Clifford is capable of anything,” said 
Rowden ; “ his nature is soured since Rue 
Barrie sat on him.” 

Elliott raised his voice ; “ I say, you fel- 
lows, we saw some flowers carried into Rue 
Barrie’s house at noon.” 

“ Posies and roses,” specified Rowden. 

“ Probably for her,” added Elliott, caress- 
ing his bulldog. 

Clifford turned with sudden suspicion upon 
Selby. The latter hummed a tune, selected a 
pair of gloves and, choosing a dozen cigarettes, 
placed them in a case. Then walking over 
to the cactus, he deliberately detached a blos- 
som, drew it through his buttonhole and pick- 
ing up hat and stick, smiled upon Clifford, at 
which the latter was mightily troubled. 


RUE RARrAe. 


301 


IV. 


|i|ONDAY morning at Julian’s, students 
H I fought for places ; students with prior 
| claims drove away others who had 
been anxiously squatting on coveted 
tabourets since the door was opened in hopes 
of appropriating them at roll-call ; students 
squabbled over palettes, brushes, portfolios, 
or rent the air with demands for Ciceri and 
bread. The former, a dirty ex-model, who 
had in palmier days posed as Judas, now 
dispensed stale bread at one sou and made 
enough to keep himself in cigarettes. Mon- 
sieur Julian walked in, smiled a fatherly smile 
and walked out. His disappearance was fol- 
lowed by the apparition of the clerk, a foxy 
creature who flitted through the battling 
hordes in search of prey. 

Three men who had not paid dues were 
caught and summoned. A fourth was 
scented, followed, outflanked, his retreat to- 
wards the door cut off, and finally captured 
behind the stove. About that time the rev- 
olution assuming an acute form, howls rose 
for “ Jules ! ” 

Jules came, umpired two fights with a sad 
resignation in his big brown eyes, shook hands 
with everybody and melted away in the throng, 
leaving an atmosphere of peace and good will. 
The lions sat down with the lambs, the mas- 
siers marked the best places for themselves 
and friends, and, mounting the model stands, 
opened the roll-calls. 


THE HlNG IN YELLOW. 


302 

The word was passed, “ They begin with C 
this week.” 

They did. 

“ Clisson ! ” 

Clisson jumped like a flash and marked his 
name on the floor in chalk before a front seat. 

“ Caron ! ” 

Caron galloped away to secure his place. 
Bang ! went an easel. “ Nom de Dieu ! ” in 

F rench, — “ Where in h 1 are you goin’ ! ” 

in English. Crash ! a paint box fell with 
brushes and all onboard. “ Dieu de Dieu 

de ” spat ! A blow, a short rush, a clinch 

and scuffle, and the voice of the massier, stern 
and reproachful : 

“ Cochon ! ” 

Then the roll-call was resumed. 

“ Clifford ! ” 

The massier paused and looked up, one fin- 
ger between the leaves of the ledger. 

“ Clifford ! ” 

Clifford was not there. He was about three 
miles away in a direct line and every instant 
increased the distance. Not that he was 
walking fast, — on the contrary, he was stroll- 
ing with that leisurely gait peculiar to him- 
self. Elliott was beside him and two bulldogs 
covered the rear. Elliott was reading the “ Gil 
Bias ” from which he seemed to extract amuse- 
ment, but deeming boisterous mirth unsuitable 
to Clifford’s state of mind, subdued his amuse- 
ment to a series of discreet smiles. The latter, 
moodily aware of this, said nothing, but lead- 
ing the way into the Luxembourg Gardens in- 
stalled himself upon a bench by the northern 
terrace and surveyed the landscape with dis- 
favor. Elliott, according to the Luxembourg 
regulations, tied the two dogs and then with 


RUE BAR REE 


3°3 

an interrogative glance toward his friend, re- 
sumed the “ Gil Bias ” and the discreet smiles. 

The day was perfect. The sun hung over 
Notre Dame, setting the city in a glitter. The 
tender foliage of the chestnuts cast a shadow 
over the terrace and flecked the paths and 
walks with tracery so blue that Clifford might 
here have found encouragement for his violent 
“ impressions ” had he but looked ; but as 
usual in this period of his career, his thoughts 
were anywhere except in his profession. 
Around about, the sparrows quarrelled and 
chattered their courtship songs, the big rosy 
pigeons sailed from tree to tree, the flies 
whirled in the sunbeams and the flowers ex- 
haled a thousand perfumes which stirred Clif- 
ford with languorous wistfulness. Under this 
influence he spoke. 

“ Elliott, you are a true friend ” 

“You make me ill,” replied the latter, 
folding his paper. “ It’s just as I thought, — 
you are tagging after some new petticoat 
again. And,” he continued wrathfully, “ if 
this is what you’ve kept me away from Julian’s 
for, — if it’s to fill me up with the perfections 
of some little idiot ” 

“ Not idiot,” remonstrated Clifford gently. 

“See here,” cried Elliott, “have you the 
nerve to try to tell me that you are in love 
again ? ” 

“ Again ? ” 

“Yes, again and again and again and — by 
George, have you ? ” 

“ This,” observed Clifford sadly, “ is serious.” 

For a moment Elliott would have laid hands 
on him, then he laughed from sheer helpless- 
ness. “ Oh, go on, go on ; let’s see, there’s 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


304 

Cl^mence and Marie Tellec and Cosette and 
Fifine, Colette, Marie Verdier ” 

“ All of whom are charming, most charm- 
ing, but I never was serious ” 

“ So help me Moses,” said Elliott, solemnly, 
“ each and every one of those named have 
separately and in turn torn your heart with 
anguish and have also made me lose my place 
at Julian’s in this same manner ; each and 
every one, separately and in turn. Do you 
deny it ? ” 

“ What you say may be founded on facts — 
in a way — but give me the credit of being 
faithful to one at a time ” 

“ Until the next came along.” 

“ But this, — this is really very different. 
Elliott, believe me, I am all broken up.” 

Then there being nothing else to do, Elliott 
gnashed his teeth and listened. 

“ It’s — it’s Rue Barrge.” 

“Well,” observed Elliott, with scorn, “if 
you are moping and moaning over that girl, — • 
the girl who has given you and myself every 
reason to wish that the ground would open 
and engulf us, — well, go on ! ” 

“ I’m going on, — I don’t care ; timidity has 
fled ” 

“Yes, your native timidity.” 

“ I’m desperate, Elliott. Am I in love ? 

Never, never did I feel so d n miserable. 

I can’t sleep ; honestly, I’m incapable of eating 
properly.” 

“Same symptoms noticed in the case ot 
Colette.” 

“ Listen, will you ? ” 

“ Hold on a moment, I know the rest by 
heart. Now let me ask you something. Is it 
your belief that Rue Barrie is a pure girl ? ” 


RUE BARR&E. 


305 


“ Yes,” said Clifford, turning red. 

“ Do you love her, — not as you dangle and 
tiptoe after every pretty inanity — I mean, do 
you honestly love her ? ” 

“ Y es,” said the other doggedly, I would ” 

“ Hold on a moment ; would you marry 
her?” 

Clifford turned scarlet. “Yes,” he mut- 
tered. 

“ Pleasant news for your family, ” growled 
Elliott in suppressed fury. * Dear father, I 
have just married a charming gnsette whom 
I’m sure you’ll welcome with open arms, in 
company with her mother, a most estimable 
and cleanly washlady.’ Good heavens ! This 
seems to have gone a little further than the 
rest. Thank your stars, young man, that my 
head is level enough for us both. Still, in 
this case, I have no fear. Rue Barree sat on 
your aspirations in a manner unmistakably 
final.” 

“ Rue Barrie,” began Clifford, drawing 
himself up, but he suddenly ceased, for there 
where the dappled sunlight glowed in spots of 
gold, along the sun-flecked path, tripped Rue 
BarrSe. Her gown was spotless, and her big 
straw hat, tipped a little from the white fore- 
head, threw a shadow across her eyes. 

Elliott stood up and bowed. Clifford re- 
moved his head covering with an air so plain- 
tive, so appealing, so utterly humble that Rue 
Barr6e smiled. 

The smile was delicious, and when Clifford, 
incapable of sustaining himself on his legs 
from sheer astonishment, toppled slightly, she 
smiled again in spite of herself. A few 
moments later she took a chair on the terrace 
and drawing a book from her music roll, 
20 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


306 

turned the pages, found the place, and then 
placing it open downwards in her lap, sighed 
a little, smiled a little, and looked out over the 
city. She had entirely forgotten P'oxhall 
Clifford. 

After a while she took up her book again, 
but instead of reading began to adjust a rose 
in her corsage. The rose was big and red. 
It glowed like fire there over her heart and 
like fire it warmed her heart now fluttering 
under the silken petals. Rue Barrie sighed 
again. She was very happy. The sky was 
so blue, the air so soft and perfumed, the sun- 
shine so caressing, and her heart sang within 
her, sang to the rose in her breast. This is 
what it sang : “ Out of the throng of passers 

by, out of the world of yesterday, out of the 
millions passing, one has turned aside to 
me.” 

So her heart sang under his rose on her 
breast. Then two big mouse-colored pigeons 
came whistling by and alighted on the terrace 
where they bowed and strutted and bobbed 
and turned until Rue Barrie laughed in de- 
light, and looking up beheld Clifford before 
her. His hat was in his hand and his face 
was wreathed in a series of appealing smiles 
which would have touched the heart of a 
Bengal tiger. 

For an instant Rue Barrie frowned, then 
she looked curiously at Clifford, then when 
she saw the resemblance between his bows 
and the bobbing pigeons, in spite of herself, 
her lips parted in the most bewitching laugh. 
Was this Rue Barrie ? So changed, so 
changed that she did not know herself ; but 
oh ! that song in her heart which drowned all 
else, which trembled on her lips, struggling 


RUE BARKER 


3°7 

for utterance, which rippled forth in a laugh 
at nothing, — at a strutting pigeon, — and Mr. 
Clifford. 

***** 

“ And you think because I return the 
salute of the students in the Quarter, that you 
may be received in particular as a friend ? 1 

do not know you Monsieur, but vanity is man’s 
other name ; — be content, Monsieur Vanity, I 
shall be punctilious — oh most punctilious in 
returning your salute.” 

“ But I beg — I implore you to let me render 
you that homage which has so long — 

“ Oh dear, I don’t care for homage.” 

“ Let me only be permitted to speak to you 
now and then, — occasionally — very occa- 
sionally.” 

“ And if you, why not another ? ” 

“ Not at all, — I will be discretion itself.” 

“ Discretion — why ? ” 

Her eyes were very clear and Clifford 
winced for a moment, but only for a moment. 
Then the devil of recklessness seizing him he 
sat down and offered himself, soul and body, 
goods and chattels. And all the time he 
knew he was a fool and that infatuation is 
not love, and that each word he uttered bound 
him in honor from which there was no escape. 
And all the time Elliott was scowling down 
on the fountain plaza and savagely checking 
both bulldogs from their desire to rush to 
Clifford’s rescue, — for even they felt there was 
something wrong, as Elliott stormed within 
himself and growled maledictions. 

When Clifford finished, he finished in a 
glow of excitement, but Rue Barrie’s response 
was long in coming and his ardor cooled 
while the situation slowly assumed its ju$t 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


308 

proportions. Then regret began to creep in, 
but he put that aside and broke out again in 
protestations. At the first word Rue Barrie 
checked him. 

“ I thank you,” she said, speaking very 
gravely. “No man has ever before offered 
me marriage.” She turned and looked out 
over the city. After a while she spoke 
again. “You offer me a great deal. I am 
alone, I have nothing, I am nothing.” She 
turned again and looked at Paris, brilliant, 
fair, in the sunshine of a perfect day. He 
followed her eyes. 

“ Oh,” she murmured, “ it is hard, — hard to 
work always — always alone with never a friend 
you can have in honor, and the love that is 
offered means the streets, the boulevard — when 
passion is dead, I know it , — we know it, — we 
others who have nothing, — have no one, and 
who give ourselves, unquestioning — when we 
love, — yes, unquestioning — heart and soul, 
knowing the end.” 

She touched the rose at her breast. For a 
moment she seemed to forget him, then 
quietly — “ I thank you, I am very grateful.” 
She opened the book and, plucking a petal 
from the rose dropped it between the leaves. 
Then looking up she said gently, “ I cannot 
accept.” 


RUE BARRIE . 


3 ° 9 


V. 

T took Clifford a month to entirely 
recover, although at the end of the 
first week he was pronounced con- 
valescent by Elliott, who was an 
authority, and his convalescence was 
aided by the cordiality with which Rue Barree 
acknowledged his solemn salutes. Forty 
times a day he blessed Rue Barrie for her 
refusal and thanked his lucky stars, and at 
the same time, oh wondrous heart of ours ! — 
he suffered the tortures of the blighted. 

Elliott was annoyed, partly by Clifford’s 
reticence, partly by the unexplainable thaw in 
the frigidity of Rue Barree. At their frequent 
encounters, when she, tripping along the rue 
de Seine, with music-roll and big straw hat 
would pass Clifford and his familiars steering 
an easterly course to the Cafe Vachette, and 
at the respectful uncovering of the band, 
would color and smile at Clifford, Elliott’s 
slumbering suspicions awoke. But he never 
found out anything and finally gave it up as 
beyond his comprehension, merely qualifying 
Clifford as an idiot and reserving his opinion 
of Rue Barree. And all this time Selby was 
jealous. At first he refused to acknowledge 
it to himself and cut the studio for a day in 
the country, but the woods and fields of 
course aggravated his case, and the brooks 
babbled of Rue Barrie and the mowers calling 
to each other across the meadow ended in a 
quavering “ Rue Bar-ree-e ! ” That day spent 



THE KING IN YELLOW . 


310 

in the country made him angry for a week, 
and he worked sulkily at Julian’s, all the time 
tormented by a desire to know where Clifford 
was and what he might be doing. This cul- 
minated in an erratic stroll on Sunday which 
ended at the flower-market on the Pont au 
Change, began again, was gloomily extended 
to the morgue, and again ended at the marble 
bridge. It would never do and Selby felt it, 
so he went to see Clifford who was conva- 
lescing on mint juleps in his garden. 

They sat down together and discussed 
morals apd human happiness, and each found 
the other most entertaining, only Selby failed 
to pump Clifford to the other’s unfeigned 
amusement. But the juleps spread balm on 
the sting of jealousy, and trickled hope to the 
blighted, and when Selby said he must go, 
Clifford went too, and when Selby, not to be 
outdone, insisted on accompanying Clifford 
back to his door, Clifford determined to see 
Selby back half way, and then finding it hard 
to part they decided to dine together and 
“ flit.” To flit, a verb applied to Clifford’s 
nocturnal prowls, expressed, perhaps, as well 
as anything, the gayety proposed. Dinner was 
ordered at Mignon’s and while Selby inter- 
viewed the chef, Clifford kept a fatherly eye 
on the butler. The dinner was a success, or 
was of the sort generally termed a success. 
Toward the dessert Selby heard some one 
say as at a great distance, “ Kid Selby, drunk 
as a lord.” 

A group of men passed near them ; it 
seemed to him that he shook hands and 
laughed a great deal, and that everybody was 
very witty. There was Clifford opposite swear- 
ing undying confidence in his chum Selby, 


RUE BARREE. 


311 

and there seemed to be others there, either 
seated beside them or continually passing 
with the swish of skirts on the polished floor. 
The perfume of roses, the rustle of fans, the 
touch of rounded arms and the laughter grew 
vaguer and vaguer. The room seemed en- 
veloped in mist. Then, all in a moment each 
object stood out painfully distinct, only forms 
and visages were distorted and voices pierc- 
ing. He drew himself up, calm, grave, for 
the moment master of himself, but very drunk. 
He knew he was drunk, and was as guarded 
and alert, as keenly suspicious of himself as 
he would have been of a thief at his elbow. 
His self-command enabled Clifford to hold his 
head safely under some running water, and 
repair to the street considerably the worse for 
wear, but never suspecting that his companion 
was drunk. For a time he kept his self- 
command. His face was only a bit paler, a 
bit tighter than usual ; he was only a trifle 
slower and more fastidious in his speech. It 
was midnight when he left Clifford peacefully 
slumbering in somebody’s arm-chair, with a 
long suede glove dangling in his hand and a 
plumy boa twisted about his neck to protect 
his throat from drafts. He walked through 
the hall and down the stairs, and found him- 
self on the sidewalk in a quarter he did not 
know. Mechanically he looked up at the 
name of the street. The name was not fa- 
miliar. He turned and steered his course to- 
ward some lights clustered at the end of the 
street. They proved farther away than he 
had anticipated and after a long quest he 
came to the conclusion that his eyes had been 
mysteriously removed from their proper 
places and had been reset on either side of 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


3 12 

his head like those of a bird. It grieved him to 
think of the inconvenience this transformation 
might occasion him. and he attempted to cock 
up his head, hen-like, to test the mobility of 
his neck. Then an immense despair stole 
over him, — tears gathered in the tear ducts, 
his heart melted, and he collided with a tree. 
This shocked him into comprehension ; he 
stifled the violent tenderness in his breast, 
picked up his hat and moved on more briskly. 
His mouth was white and drawn, his teeth 
tightly clinched. He held his course pretty 
well and strayed but little, and after an ap- 
parently interminable length of time found 
himself passing a line of cabs. The brilliant 
lamps, red, yellow and green annoyed him, 
and he felt it might be pleasant to demolish 
them with his cane, but mastering this im- 
pulse he passed on. Later an idea struck 
him that it would save fatigue to take a cab, 
and he started back with that intention but 
the cabs seemed already so far away and the 
lanterns were so bright and confusing that he 
gave it up, and pulling himself together looked 
around. 

A shadow, a mass, huge, undefined, rose to 
his right. He recognized the Arc de Triomphe 
and gravely shook his cane at it. Its size 
annoyed him. He felt it was too big. Then 
he heard something fall clattering to the pave- 
ment and thought probably it was his cane 
but it didn’t much matter. When he had 
mastered himself and regained control of his 
right leg which betrayed symptoms of insub- 
ordination, he found himself traversing the 
Place de la Concorde at a pace which threat- 
ened to land him at the Madeleine. This 
would never do. He turned sharply to the 


RUE BARR&E. 


3 l 3 

right and crossing the bridge passed the 
Palais Bourbon at a trot and wheeled into the 
Boulevard St. Germain. He got on well 
enough although the size of the War Office 
struck him as a personal insult, and he missed 
his cane which it would have been pleasant to 
drag along the iron railings as he passed. It 
occurred to him, however, to substitute his hat, 
but when he found it, he forgot what he wanted 
it for and replaced it upon his head with 
gravity. Then he was obliged to battle with 
a violent inclination to sit down and weep. 
This lasted until he came to the rue de 
Rennes, but there he became absorbed in 
contemplating the dragon on the balcony 
overhanging the Cour de Dragon, and time 
slipped away until he remembered vaguely 
that he had no business there, and marched 
off again. It was slow work. The inclina- 
tion to sit down and weep had given place to 
a desire for solitary and deep reflection. Here 
his right leg forgot its obedience and attack- 
ing the left, outflanked it and brought him up 
against a wooden board which seemed to bar 
his path. He tried to walk around it, but 
found the street closed. He tried to push it 
over, and found he couldn’t. Then he noticed 
a red lantern standing on a pile of paving 
stones inside the barrier. This was pleasant. 
How was he to get home if the boulevard 
was blocked ? But he was not on the boule- 
vard. His treacherous right leg had beguiled 
him into a detour, for there, behind him lay 
the boulevard with its endless line of lamps, — - 
and here, what was this narrow dilapidated 
street piled up with earth and mortar and 
heaps of stone ? He looked up. Written in 
staring black letters on the barrier was 


THE KING IN YELLOW. 


3 r 4 

Rue Barree. 

He sat down. Two policemen whom he 
knew came by and advised him to get up, but 
he argued the question from a standpoint of 
personal taste and they passed on, laughing. 
For he was at that moment absorbed in a 
problem. It was, how to see Rue Barred. 
She was somewhere or other in that big house 
with the iron balconies, and the door was 
locked, but what of that ? The simple idea 
struck him to shout until she came. This 
idea was replaced by another equally lucid, — 
to hammer on the door until she came ; but 
finally rejecting both of these as too uncer- 
tain, he decided to climb into the balcony, 
and opening a window politely inquire for 
Rue Barred. There was but one lighted win- 
dow in the house that he could see. It was 
on the second floor, and toward this he cast 
his eyes. Then mounting the wooden barrier 
and clambering over the piles of stones, he 
reached the sidewalk and looked up at the 
fagade for a foothold. It seemed impossible. 
But a sudden fury seized him, a blind, drunken 
obstinacy, and the blood rushed to his head, 
leaping, beating in his ears like the dull 
thunder of an ocean. He set his teeth, and 
springing at a window-sill, dragged him- 
self up and hung to the iron bars. Then 
reason fled ; there surged in his brain the 
sound of many voices, his heart leaped up 
beating a mad tattoo, and gripping at cornice 
and ledge he worked his way along the fagade, 
clung to pipes and shutters, and dragged 
himself up, over and into the balcony by the 
lighted window. His hat fell off and rolled 
against the pane. F<?ra moment he leaned 


RUE BARREE. 


315 

breathless against the railing, — then the win- 
dow was slowly opened from within. 

They stared at each other for some time. 
Presently the girl took two unsteady steps back 
into the room. He saw her face, — all crim- 
soned now, — he saw her sink into a chair by 
the lamplit table, and without a word he fol- 
lowed her into the room, closing the big door- 
like panes behind him. Then they looked at 
each other in silence. 

The room was small and white ; everything 
was white about it, — the curtained bed, the 
little wash-stand in the corner, the bare walls, 
the china lamp, — and his own face, — had he 
known it, but the face and neck of Rue were 
surging in the color that dyed the blossoming 
rose-tree there on the hearth beside her. It 
did not occur to him to speak. She seemed 
not to expect it. His mind was struggling 
with the impressions of the room. The white- 
ness, the extreme purity of everything occupied 
him — began to trouble him. As his eye be- 
came accustomed to the light, other objects 
grew from the surroundings and took their 
places in the circle of lamplight. There was 
a piano and a coal-scuttle and a little iron 
trunk and a bath-tub. Then there was a row 
of wooden pegs against the door, with a white 
chintz curtain covering the clothes under- 
neath. On the bed lay an umbrella, and a 
big straw hat, and on the table, a music-roll 
unfurled, an ink-stand, and sheets of ruled 
paper. Behind him stood a wardrobe faced 
with a mirror, but somehow he did not care to 
see his own face just then. He was sobering. 

The girl sat looking at him without a word. 
Her face was expressionless, yet the lips at 
times trembled almost imperceptibly. Her 


^6 the king in yellow. 

eyes, so wonderfully blue in the daylight, 
seemed dark and soft as velvet, and the color 
on her neck deepened and whitened with 
every breath. She seemed smaller and more 
slender than when he had seen her in the 
street, and there was now something in the 
curve of her cheek almost infantine. When 
at last he turned and caught his own reflec- 
tion in the mirror behind him, a shock passed 
through him as though he had seen a shame- 
ful thing, and his clouded mind and his 
clouded thoughts grew clearer. For a mo- 
ment their eyes met, then his sought the floor, 
his lips tightened, and the struggle within 
him bowed his head and strained every nerve 
to the breaking. And now it was over, for 
the voice within had spoken. He listened, 
dully interested but already knowing the end, 
— indeed it little mattered ; — the end would 
always be the same for him ; — he understood 
now, — always the same for him, and he list- 
ened, dully 'interested, to a voice which grew 
within him. After a while he stood up, and 
she rose at once, one small hand resting on 
the table. Presently he opened the window, 
picked up his hat, and shut it again. Then 
he went over to the rosebush and touched the 
blossoms with his face. One was standing in 
a glass of water on the table, and mechani- 
cally the girl drew it out, pressed it with her 
lips and laid it on the table beside him. He 
took it without a word and crossing the room, 
opened the door. The landing was dark and 
silent but the girl lifted the lamp and gliding 
past him slipped down the polished stairs to 
the hallway. Then unchaining the bolts, she 
drew open the iron wicket. 

Through this he passed with his rose. 


FATHER STAFFORD 

BY ANTHONY HOPE. 

*he Most Remarkable of Mr. Hope's Stories* 


Minneapolis “This story is in the genuine Hope style 
Tribune and for that reason will be widely read.” 

Public Ledger. “ * Father Stafford ” is extremely clever, 
Philadelphia a bold privateer venturing upon the 

high seas.” 

San Francisco It is a good story, the strong parts o. 
Chronicle which are the conflict between love and 

conscience on the part of a young Anglican priest. The 
charm of the book, however, lies in the briskness of the dia* 
logue, which is as finely finished as any of Hope’s novels.” 
Nashville “ ‘Father Stafford’ is a charming story. The 
Banner whole book sustains the reputation that An- 

thony Hope has made, and adds another proof that as a 
portrayer of characters of sharp distinctness and individ- 
uality, he has no superior.” 

Evening “A writer of great merit. . . . Mr. Hope’s 
Wisconsin work has a quality of straightforwardness 
that recommends it to readers who have grown tired of 
the loaded novel.” 

Phillipsburg “ This is considered by his critics to be one 
Journal of the strongest, most beautiful and in- 

teresting novels Mr. Hope has ever written. There is not 
a dull line in the entire volume.” 

Amusement “The dialogue is bright and worldly, and 
Gazette the other characters do not suffer because 

so prominent is the hero ; they are well drawn, and quite 
out of the ordinary.” 

Vanity, “A very interesting narrative, and Mr. Hopt 
New York tells the story after that fashion which he 
| would seem to have made peculiarly his own.” 

Kansas City “There is something more than the romance 

Journal of the action to hold the reader’s mind. It 

is one of the author’s best productions.” 

Every Saturday, “Anthony Hope is a master of dialogue, 
Elgin, 111. and to his art in this pi rticular is due 

the enticing interest which leads the reader on froo page 
to page.” 

Hebrew “The strife between the obligation of a vow of 
Standard celibacy and the promptings of true love are 
vividly portrayed in this little book. . . . It contains an 
admirable description of English country life, and is well 
written ' 

Boston Daily ‘ X. has enough of the charm ot the aa* 
Globe \ior’s thought and style to identify ft *** 

•characteristic, make it very pleasing.” 

Buckram. Ailt ‘top. Retail, 75 Cents' 




GILT TOP, 75 CENTS. 


a _ inow of nothing in the book line that equals Neely’s 
Prismatic Library for elegance and careful selection. It 
sets a pace that others will not easily equal and none sur- 
pass. ”-E. A. ROBINSON. 


SOAP BUBBLES. Max Nordau. Brilliant, 
fascinating, intensely interesting. 

BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS. “Gyp.” From the 
French, by Katherine di Zerega. Ulus. 

NOBLE BLOOD and A WEST POINT PAR- 
ALLEL. By Capt. Charles King and 
Ernst Von Wildenbruch, of the German 
Army. 

TRUMPETER FRED. Capt. Charles King, 
U. S. A. Author of “ Fort Frayne,” “An 
Army Wife,” etc. Full-page illustrations. 

THE KING IN YELLOW. By the Author of 
“In the Quarter.” It is a masterpiece. . . 
* have read many portions several times, 
captivated by the unapproachable tints of 
Ihe painting. None but a genius of the 
highest order could do such work. — 
Edward Ellis. 

IN THE QUARTER. By the Author of “‘the 
King in Yellow.” “Well written, 
vivid; the ending is highly dramatic.” 

Boston Times. 

FATHER STAFFORD. Anthony Hope!. 
Author of “The Prisoner of Zenda.” 

“ ‘Father Stafford’ is quite the best thing Hope has done 

so far, if I except one or two scenes from the “Dolly 

Dialogues.”— JOHN OLIVER HOBBES. 

AN ART FAILURE. John W. Harding. A 
etory of the Latin Quarter as it is. More 
chan fifty illustrations. 


For sale everywhere or sent postpaid on receipt 
of price by the publisher. 

F. TENNYSON NEEL/, 

FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, a 














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